The London and South Western Mystery
by azurelacroix
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is engaged to recover a missing train, but when The Woman reappears in London, not everything goes according to plan. Warnings for erotic content, dark themes, and the fact that the author takes sadistic pleasure in torturing Mr. Holmes.
1. A Most Unusual Theft

_I feel that I, the author, should give some forewarning to the reader. _

_This is the second draft of my very first Sherlock Holmes fanfic, and the first fic I've written in a number of years. It has been beta-read by my most excellent beta, who goes by the moniker Thessaly, and is hopefully up to par in terms of convention and research. It is my attempt to reconcile the canon with the recent film, and while the Holmes of my imagination is Jeremy Brett, I have also tried to imbue him with some of the cavalierness and mania of Robert Downey Jr's portrayal. _

_Dedicated to Thessaly, who always has magnifying glass in hand, and to Weston Wynde, for setting the bar high._

_

* * *

_

Letter found in the Last Will and Testament of John H. Watson:

_To Cox & Co et al,_

_I, John H. Watson, hereby instruct that the narratives, letters and journal contained in the envelope marked "Re: Withheld" should be released a minimum of thirty years after my death. A notarized letter of assent from the other concerned party is also enclosed. I leave it to the discretion of the honourable Mr. Frederick Cox Sr to assemble them for publication. _

_J.H. Watson, M.D._

Over the course of my long friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I have recorded a great number of cases that had they ever seen the light of day, would wreak havoc on many a delicate reputation. After my fashion, I have either gone to great lengths to alter identities, or to refrain from publication until such time as it will not injure the persons or governments involved. However, in this particular instance, it is not the client whose reputation it has been incumbent upon me to protect, but rather that of Holmes himself. While he himself disdains social convention, even he has agreed that in this particular instance that the affair should remain secret until after both of us have departed from this life.

So it is from the shores of the afterlife that I convey this, the most singular and shocking story of Sherlock Holmes' career. I readily admit that even now, I am not in full possession of the facts, and it is down to Holmes to decide if he wants to make all of the details public. I do know that during the course of our attempt to resolve the disappearance of the railway shipment, my friend met with, for the second time, a tremendous defeat. Far from being humbled, he seemed to have been galvanized, and had keenly pursued his adversary ever since.

I had long been aware of his stoic attitude towards failure, and I found I was quite surprised by his behaviour. Holmes was rarely one to swear oaths of vengeance. Far be it for me to disclose the reason for his vehemence, but I may hint to the reader that it is in regards to the one Holmes has always referred to as "the woman". The publication of the rest of the details are at Holmes' discretion. In the interest of my friend's reputation, I have vowed to be circumspect in my own account.

As Holmes would say, I am committing a literary transgression by telling my story in the reverse. In my defense, the events require some forewarning. But I digress.

I have often observed that Sherlock Holmes is a creature of highly irregular habits. One of the most notable of these is his propensity for staying awake for days on end. Often during a case he will go seemingly superhuman lengths of time without sleep, and I have never yet seen his energy fail him in the service of his profession. When he was without a case he would alternate between listless days and sleepless nights.

It was not a rare occasion for me to leave him reading in front of the fire in the evening, and to come down in the morning and discover him in exactly the same attitude. Other times, he would stay awake into the far reaches of the night, his head bent over a monograph, his eyes red from his unceasing wakefulness. Only after a case did he seem to find some kind of healthy rhythm of sleep, and then only for a short time. Soon enough his insomnia would take hold again, and the entire row would wake at some ungodly hour to the sound of him bowing furiously on his Stradivarius. In that respect, forsaking my rooms had been something of a mercy, though I worried about the affect my absence would have on my friend.

Like so many brilliant minds, Sherlock Holmes was cursed with perception so heightened that it could whip up into what can only be called a mental frenzy, only to spiral down into the darkest depression. Left to his own devices, he resorted to morphine or cocaine as a means to moderate his mood, despite my constant warnings. The chemicals had only limited effect on him, but did appear to moderate his extremes. Work, he claimed, was the best cure. In my long acquaintance with Holmes, I have since come to the conclusion that a sane mind may be restful, but it does not allow for the kind of mental flexibility necessary for the higher art of lightning-fast deductive analysis.

To the casual observer, Holmes may have appeared to be an extreme eccentric, but I have formed the opinion that his soundness of mind was often questionable. He was impulsive, intractable, fearless, inscrutable, obsessive, reactive, self destructive, and sometimes positively manic. These combined elements might land any other man in an insane asylum. For Holmes, it was the perfect recipe for his occupation. It made the precipice of madness a tenable position. Without his art, he would have surely tumbled off, and sometimes it was a close thing. I did my best to anchor him.

That brisk morning in 1889, I decided on a whim to visit Baker Street. My ring met with no answer, so I used my key to open the door and made my way up to my old quarters. Crossing the threshold, I was forced to pick my way through the debris of books, cigarette ash and old newspapers. I was familiar with these hallmarks, and knew at once that cases had been thin on the ground for my friend.

I expected to find him languishing on the couch in drug induced haze, but was surprised to find him fast asleep, huddled in front of his chemistry set. It was clear he had been in the middle of some complex chemical experiment, as evidenced by the quantity of liquid boiling furiously above a Bunsen burner, and a number of shattered phials littering the desk. The liquid was giving off noxious fumes, so I hastened to the window and flung it open. Then I hurried back over to Holmes and quickly turned off the Bunsen burner. It took another two prods to wake him. He grunted and looked up at me with bleary eyes.

"Watson, you bounder, whatever did you turn off the burner for? I was on the verge of success."

Taking in the devastated equipment, I gathered that he had simply dozed off in the middle of his experiment and had attempted to continue conducting it from the nether realm of his subconscious.

"Holmes, you've been dreaming," I said, shaking my head. "Considering your sitting room is practically a tinder box, I'm surprised the whole row isn't ablaze. How could Mrs. Hudson could let you get in such a state? Or did she did she take one look at this place and die of apoplectic shock?"

Holmes unfolded his long frame from the chair and gave a great yawn, running his hands through his mussed hair. "Mrs. Hudson is in bed. I joined her in the kitchen for early morning tea, and she had a little...attack of malaise."

"You _drugged_ her?" I said, quite appalled.

"'Drugged' is such a harsh word," he said mildly, going over to the sofa. He shifted some of the debris before sinking into it, letting his head roll back. "It was an act of kindness, really."

"Oh? For whom?" I said acidly. "I'm amazed your appearance didn't alert her immediately."

"Well, she was rather suspicious until the laudanum began to take effect."

"Holmes, for one who purports to uphold the cause of justice, you are dreadfully hypocritical. Some might say criminal. I do believe poisoning your landlady qualifies."

"A few drops of poppy is hardly poisoning," he said derisively. "It wouldn't do for me to be dragged off to the Yard just for sparing dear old Mrs. Hudson the fatal shock of seeing my messy sitting room. Besides, you are as much to blame as I."

"I? In what way am I responsible for your depravity?"

He turned an ironical eye on me. "Watson, you are my magnetic north. Without you, my moral compass spins."

I was somewhat mollified by this pronouncement. I had always done my best to exert some kind of grounding effect on him, but in truth there was little one could do in the face of Holmes' mercurial temperament.

"Holmes, you must take some rest. You are clearly exhausted," I said, well aware that he would ignore my advice. As expected, he waved a dismissive hand.

"Why bother? I am awake now." He yawned again, stretched and then began to pick glass out of the sleeve of his dressing gown.

I concluded that as Mrs. Hudson was unlikely to recover any time soon, breakfast was not forthcoming, so I went down stairs to retrieve the mail, and returned to find Holmes supplying himself with his customary morning pipe. I flipped through the mail, looking for the Times. In addition to the usual periodicals, there was a telegram. I passed it to Holmes and took the Times for myself.

"Are there any offerings this evening?" he inquired idly as he slit open the telegram.

"_Tannhäuser_ at the Albert Hall, if you are so inclined."

"I may be, unless otherwise engaged," he gave the telegram a little flick. "It appears my services are wanted desperately at 84 Belgrave Mews by a Mr. Malcolm Dover. Would you like to accompany me, or would you prefer not to associate yourself with such a scoundrel?"

I heaved a sigh. "As if I could refuse, Holmes."

"You are the most stalwart of companions, Watson."

...

84 Belgrave Mews was one of a row of terraced houses, white washed with bay windows. We were shown in by a page, and were shortly met by the master of the house. Malcolm Dover was tall and wiry, with an tanned complexion and quick dark eyes. His air was very casual and relaxed, and he was dressed in finely tailored cream silk. At first glance, one might take him for a dandy, but there was a shrewdness beneath the charming exterior.

"Mr. Holmes?" his voice was an American drawl. He was a southerner, if my unpracticed ear did not deceive. The hall decor included various articles that confirmed my hypothesis: many sets of great longhorns adorned the walls, along with a large bullet-ridden Confederate flag, proudly displayed.

Holmes offered his hand. "Mr. Dover. This my colleague, Dr. Watson."

"Doctor," Dover said, shaking my hand.

Holmes tapped his lips with his forefinger. "I see you are very recently from America, Mr. Dover. Texas, I should say."

"Too right," said Dover with a laugh. "I was in Bowie County not two months ago. I'd heard you were something of a conjurer, Mr. Holmes. I would be mighty flattered if you'd deign to show me your trick."

"I think you will find the magic gone from it," Holmes chuckled. "But if it pleases you."

He paused for a moment and looked our host up and down.

"That you are yourself American is not difficult, of course. You are quite brown, but free of tropical insect bites, which suggests the winter desert climate of your late travels. There is also a faint whiff of cigar smoke in the air, brand El Paso Corona, which is not manufactured anywhere but its namesake and is quite distinctive. Lastly, your new snake-skin boots, while of good quality and quite expensive, are hardly worth the cost of shipping overseas and so must have been recently purchased in country."

Dover looked taken aback for a moment, but then recovered himself and smiled winningly. "Your powers were not exaggerated. You have given me a great deal more hope than I had a moment ago. Come along," he beckoned. "The drawing room's a better place for a yarn."

The three of us made our way into the drawing room. Our host offered the aforementioned cigars. I chose to abstain, but Holmes readily accepted. Dover dressed two coronas and passed one to my companion, who lit it before taking a seat. I elected to remain standing, and quickly fished out my notebook.

"Now, you have a matter of some urgency you wish to put before me," said Holmes as he took a deep drag and blew a few smoke rings. "Your telegram mentioned no specifics."

"I surely do, sir," said Dover, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his forehead. "Well, it is mighty far-fetched and much in your line, or so I hear tell. In any case, I run an importing business, the Himalayan Tea Company. A shipment by train was expected last night, but never came in."

"The train never came in?"

"That is just it, Mr. Holmes. The train has disappeared entirely. It came through Salisbury, but that was the last anyone heard of it. It was a London and South Western Railway special."

"Well, that is novel," Holmes said with a small chuckle. "One hears of train robberies, but this gives it an altogether new meaning."

"They used to be commonplace in my home state, but I ain't never heard of anyone making off with the whole train. We checked all the lines and switches, but no joy. On top of that, the engineer's gone missing."

Holmes's eyebrows shot up. To the untrained eye, it appeared he was exhibiting concern, but I knew his interest had been piqued by the scent of blood.

"That does make it rather more serious," he said as he leaned forward, his eyes taking on the tell-tale glitter. "Tell me, do you know the man's name?"

"The receipt says it was a man by the name of Peter Flanders."

"The engine's class and designation will also be necessary."

"It was a 415, number 544. The shipment was small, so we only engaged one boxcar and ordered it for Waterloo Bridge."

"What time was it due?"

"One o' clock in the morning. It was a very important shipment. Our most prized import, the Annapurna Purple Star, was among its contents. We have a monopoly on it, and the competition would dearly love to break it. The Star is worth its weight in gold."

"I see," Holmes said shortly. "You suspect the tea was the object of the theft."

"I can't think why else," Dover said, shrugging. "But I couldn't tell you why they took the train with them."

"I cannot help but wonder, why not go to the police with this matter?"

"Think of the embarrassment, Mr. Holmes. Matters that go before the police find their way into the press, and I'm at pains to shield my establishment."

"Very good, Mr. Dover." Holmes said, rising from his seat. "I think I have enough to be going on with. I will contact you with any developments. We will show ourselves out. Watson?"

I pocketed my notebook and followed Holmes out into the dusty street. As I hailed a cab, Holmes had lasped into a contemplative silence.

"I gather you've already read an answer into this." I said drolly as we got into the hansom.

"Several possibilities have occurred to me, as I am sure they have occurred to you."

"Something is troubling you."

"Does Dover's story not strike you as wanting in detail?"

"It is very bizarre, but I see no reason to doubt the man."

"Do you not? Oh, well." Holmes knocked the ceiling of the cab with his stick. "Take us to the London and South Western shipping office."

"Holmes..."

"I think, Watson," said Holmes with his maddeningly effervescent smile. "That we have time enough to make some inquiries and take dinner before Wagner."

...

Down by the Thames, gulls wheeled and cried. The cold wind blowing off the river was bracing and the chill penetrated my thick wool coat. Holmes, as usual, appeared impervious to the elements. I followed his long stride and we quickly made our way into the offices of the London and South Western Shipping Division.

"Sir," Holmes barked to the sleepy-looking clerk at the desk, who suddenly straightened to attention. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am investigating the loss of the property of one of your accounts. You do hold the account of the Himalayan Tea Company, correct?"

"Yes, sir," said the clerk stiffly. "Though information about our clients is strictly-"

Holmes cut him off with a sharp gesture."We are bound by the same confidence. I am employed by Mr. Malcolm Dover. We are attempting to trace a shipment that went missing after it was delivered to a special bound for London. I am aware that it arrived in Plymouth yesterday and was loaded on the train. I wish to know at what time the cargo was loaded."

"Well, I suppose it can be no harm to tell you that." The clerk pulled a thick portfolio out from under the counter, and began to leaf through it. "Let's see...the Himalayan Tea Company. Yes, I have it here. Plymouth wired that the cargo was unloaded directly from the clipper _Queen of Makalu_ and on to the special at 11 o' clock in the morning."

"Very good." Holmes touched his hat. We turned and made our way back out to the street, hailed a hansom and directed the cabbie on to Simpson's.

...

I was half way through my pheasant, but found that watching Holmes push his mutton and potatoes around his plate in a continuous circuit had put me off my appetite. I would have berated him for ordering it in the first place in the hopes that it would induce him to eat, but long suffering experience had taught me the futility of my efforts. Like a hound after a fox, Holmes would only take his sustenance after the hunt was finished.

"How very curious," he remarked as he idly mashed one pea after another with his fork.

"What's curious?" I asked, somewhat irritated by his behaviour.

"You did not see the purpose of my inquiry?"

"I did not see it as pertinent."

"Of course it is pertinent," he said, shoving his plate away moodily. "I've only managed to plunge the matter further into obscurity."

"How so?"

"The shipment was loaded in the morning, and deliberately held back. Why delay it in Plymouth for thirteen hours, when it could be brought to London in half the time?" he put his fingers together and rested his chin upon them, surveying me. "Have you, in all your travels, ever heard of a tea theft before?"

"I must say, I have not," I said, chuckling. "Leastaways, not by rail. I can recall past instances of tea clippers being assaulted by Chinese pirates, but that has little bearing."

"Quite. Even for a very expensive tea, it strikes me as over-cautious to deliberately arrange for transport in the dead of night."

"Are you suggesting Mr. Dover was attempting to perpetrate some kind of mischief?"

"No client is beyond reproach, Watson," he chided gently.

"Holmes," I said, frowning. "If he is engaged in some kind of foul play, should we be aiding him?"

He lit a cigarette, took a few contemplative puffs, and then regarded me. "There is the engineer to consider, and involving the police now would be premature. We may need Dover's cooperation. If he is attempting to play us false, well..." he grinned deviously. "I will be quite pleased to clean my claws in him."

I gave him a sideways look. He clapped his hands and rose from the table.

"Come along, Watson. If we're to be on time, we must leave now."

...

The first half of the evening, Holmes was quite engaged with the performance. It was quite usual for my companion to allow music to consume him utterly, though it was not beyond him to walk out of a performance if it he felt the musician or musicians in question were not equal to it. Tonight's performance was exceptional, so I was rather surprised when during the third act, I noticed that his hand had stopped floating along to the libretto, and his eyes were open. Something had diverted his attention to a box to the far right of the theater. I followed his gaze to its occupant. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but it appeared to be a woman, clad in a gray taffeta gown. She was rising to leave. I felt a sudden jolt of recognition.

"Holmes!" I whispered urgently, pointing at the box. "Surely that is..."

I turned to my companion to register my surprise, but found that he too had disappeared.


	2. The Woman

_Sussex Downs, April 12th, 1926_

_My dearest Watson,_

_I was deeply amused by your last letter. Do you imagine for a moment that I do not know to what you refer? I beg you clarify your inquiries in the future so that I may answer them directly and apprise you of the full story. I know you have expressed the desire to publish certain accounts posthumously, I leave the inclusion of these recollections to your discretion._

_I will admit it was wise of you to wait until our twilight years to broach the subject. My pride has never fully recovered, though time has softened the blow. I see it now as an ultimately necessary humiliation, for one can be blinkered and fettered by pride. I suppose I must thank my malfeasant schoolmistress for that hard-learned lesson. _

_You would be surprised to know that during the latter years of my practice, I had word from her, not too long after the death of her second husband. She herself shuffled off the mortal coil just last year, and to my surprise, I find myself feeling a distinct sense of loss, just as I did when Moriarty disappeared from the field. For all the ills she visited upon me, I will always feel a certain perverse affection for the woman. I am not normally given to nostalgia, Watson, but it has occurred to me that the lady merits a more candid epitaph, which I feel compelled to provide._

_That is not to say she had a particular hold over me. I have never allowed myself to be compromised by the fairer sex, and she was no exception. The pain she caused me would have been the same if I had overestimated the character of any person whose nobility and virtue I had previously held in high esteem._

_But I digress. It is evident to me that you wish to know all that occurred between the woman and myself. I had best begin with when I left you so rudely after the performance at the Albert Hall._

_My curiosity aroused, I followed her down to the omnibus. She boarded the lower level, and I ascended to the roof, the ideal vantage point for observing those entering and exiting. We jogged along for a half an hour towards Regent's Park. She disembarked at the southern entrance and made her way into the park. I quickly paid my fare and scrambled down just in time to see the pale figure slip into the trees and out of sight._

_It was too dark to go by footprints, but my hearing is keen. I could discern the rustle of skirts, and plunged into the foliage after her. You know I am no mean tracker, Watson, but she somehow managed to elude me. The park was busy with late night traffic, and there were a number of cabs lined up along the Outer Circle. By the light of their lamps, I was able to see the faint indentations in the grass as they led off into the road. I had a clear view of the field, but the shape had disappeared. I made a cursory check of the cabs and found no sign of her. _

_Dejected and wondering what I had gained by my pursuit, I decided to give up the cause and make the short walk back to Baker Street. When I arrived, Mrs. Hudson was waiting for me. It was obvious she had been roused from bed, for she was in her dressing gown. _

_"There is a young gentleman in your rooms. I told him you weren't here, but he insisted that it was urgent and that he would wait."_

_I told Mrs. Hudson I would not need anything else and bid her goodnight._

_I ascended to my rooms and found my guest standing by the window, peering down into the street. The figure was silhouetted against the lamplight, a bowler hat pulled low to obscure the face, but I could see the slight stature, the delicate hands folded at the back. _

_"Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?" I asked, pulling my coat off and tossing it on the sofa. My guest turned around, and lifted the hat. There stood the woman herself, dressed in a smart gray towncoat, her hair neatly pinned. The smile on her lips was satisfied, and her eyes sparkled with mirth. _

_"It is true, we have never been properly introduced," she said, offering one of those spare, slender hands. "Irene Norton, lately Adler."_

_Of course it was she. I felt a stab of annoyance. It was the second time she had employed such a trick against me. More fool me for being so easily deceived. But then, Irene Norton was far more skillful than I ever gave her credit for while she was alive. _

_I reached across and accepted the proffered hand. Her grip was cool and unexpectedly firm, her expression relaxed. I motioned her to a chair, noting that the excellently tailored suit had the effect of giving her a boyish grace. The taffeta dress must have been sacrificed in Regent's Park, and the hat purchased from a cabbie. As for the jacket, it might be difficult, but not impossible to conceal. A few elastics sewn inside the train had probably have done the trick._

_"Tell me, is it your usual practice to wear men's clothing under your skirts?" I asked, my consternation slowly turning to amusement._

_"Shocking, Mr. Holmes," she said with mock reproach. "Asking a woman what she wears under her skirts."_

_"I hardly think you are in any position to admonish me for flouting convention, Mrs. Norton. It isn't often a woman parts with such an expensive frock, especially for a gentleman's gaiters."_

_She laughed throatily. "I think it is fair to say we are both rather unorthodox in our ways. To answer your question, it is a technique I employ when I wish to travel unhindered through the world. A female alone after dark is subject to a great many inconveniences, not least the danger of being followed by predators."_

_"I do apologize if I frightened you," I said. "It was not my intention."_

_"Your intention was to discover if I was up to any mischief," she said frankly. "Do you mind if I smoke?"_

_I waved a dismissive hand. She offered me the cigarette case, and I accepted one of the thin black stags. She struck a match, lit my cigarette and then her own. She leaned back, and inhaled deeply. A plume of thick Turkish smoke curled from her lips, and she regarded me impassively. _

_"Mr. Holmes, my visit to London is purely social in nature. My intention is to call on old friends, and I would much prefer to do that unmolested."_

_"Madam," said I, flicking ash into the fire, "it is my business to know what goes on in this city, to the extent that it is possible. Your past conduct has not been admirable."_

_"Oh, indeed," she said icily, rising from her chair. "This from the man who aided my enemy in chasing me from the home I loved."_

_I remained in my seat, cool as you like, and gave her my most beatific smile. "Are you certain you did not come seeking vengeance?"_

_"It would serve you right if I had," she said, playfully stabbing her cigarette at me. There was a subtle animation to her movements that fascinated me. Not constricted by female accouterments, the deliberation of her gestures were agile and pronounced, with the most subtle hint of threat._

_A lesser soul might be intimidated by her attitude, but I felt a wave of derision rise within me._

_"So you came here merely to upbraid me for my insolence?" I asked coldly. "Madam, you may have bested me once, but I must caution you against attempting it a second time."_

_She became quite still, and fixed me with a penetrating stare. Then she took a deep breath and resumed her seat, but her cheeks were still flushed._

_"While I do believe you would benefit from a lesson in humility, that was not my entire purpose."_

_"Pray tell, Mrs. Norton."_

_She looked at me intently. "Mr. Holmes, I think it is not beyond us to be civil. Perhaps even friends, given time." _

_My hackles were immediately raised. "I do not seek the friendship of the fairer sex as a rule. It always complicates matters, and I find the experiment invariably ends in disappointment. Then there is the inescapable fact that I simply do not trust you."_

_"Friendly adversaries, then."_

_"That is fair enough. You are a worthy opponent...for a woman."_

_"How generous of you," she said archly, tossing the rest of her cigarette into the grate._

_I rose. "Mrs. Norton, I am very sorry to cut short this little visit, but I must say I have other business to attend to. I regret I must bid you good night."_

_She rose, and turned to go, but hesitated at the door. She reached into her jacket, drew out a card and laid it on the sideboard with a faint snap. "Good night, Mr. Holmes."_

_I said nothing, but waved a hand towards the door. She inclined her head, and disappeared down the stairs. _

_Mrs. Norton certainly left me wondering, Watson. Her outrageous behaviour was clear evidence that despite her declaration to the contrary, her maneuver was not intended merely to prick my vanity. I was filled with suspicion, nay, certainty that she had come to Baker Street with a deeper purpose._

_Had you asked me last year whether I would see Irene Norton, née Adler again, I would have answered with a resounding negative. I could not predict that we might cross paths again. To my cost, Watson, I underestimated her. I have taken the view Moriarty was my deadliest enemy of my career, but it is just possible that if Mrs. Norton had ever wished my destruction, she might have superseded him. _

_I must continue this narrative at another time. I am long overdue at the hives, and I have much work to do before the summer harvest. Please, Watson, give me news of yourself and look for my next letter. _

_Yours, as ever,_

_Sherlock Holmes_


	3. Engine 544

"Listen to this, Holmes:

"Last night, the _Globe_ received word from the police secretary that the famous Texarkana Strangler, Jacob Hackett, has been apprehended. He was discovered three days ago in Belfast while masquerading as an employee of the New India Shipping Company. He was taken into custody after carrying out a drunken assault on a fellow sailor, and was later identified by the American Embassy as being the sought-after fugitive.

"Scotland Yard and the Home Department are expected to enter into extradition negotiations with the United States, pending whether or not they can make a case against Mr. Hackett for a crime or crimes he may have committed in Britain. The infamous criminal-for-hire is known to have murdered six people in his own country, is believed to be in the employ of some criminal organization here in London, but it appears that nothing will induce him to reveal the details of his business.

"In the past, his known associations have included the illustrious Bowery Rose Gang, and the Waco Highwaymen. He has also spent time in European prisons after he was connected with a criminal syndicate in Italy. Hackett is now being held at the Yard, and it is expected that his legal council will not issue a statement prior to the extradition hearing."

Holmes stirred from his pipe and looked at me dolefully. "Watson, you know that apprehended criminals do not interest me. Especially such a clumsy one as this Hackett fellow." He took the newspaper and tossed it into the growing pile.

"You're in a cheerful mood again," I remarked, dipping my spoon into my soft boiled egg and scooping it out on a piece of toast. "You still haven't told me what happened after we parted last night."

"Nothing of interest," he said shortly, clamping his pipe between his teeth.

"I thought you had intended to meet with Irene Adler, or Mrs. Norton, as she is now. It was she who was in that box, wasn't it?"

"Yes, it was she. I considered following her, but thought better," he replied. "I have problems enough to keep me occupied at present."

"You aren't even curious as to why she is here?"

He raised an eyebrow. "No. Why do you press the issue?"

"No particular reason. It just seems unlike you, that is all," I said quietly, wondering if he was not being entirely honest.

"The score with Mrs. Norton has already been settled," he said brusquely, rising from his seat. "No, it is to this train business that we must turn our attention. Finish your breakfast and we'll get a hansom to Nine Elms."

"Nine Elms? I thought the train was bound for Waterloo? Should we not try there first?"

"That would be bringing coal to Newcastle, Watson," he said airily. "Waterloo can provide us with no data that we do not already have. The locomotives are housed at Nine Elms and there has been nothing yet in the paper that suggests they are not all accounted for."

...

Nine Elms Railway Station was bustling, the din of commerce echoing around the large depot. Freight was being unloaded and shifted, moved on to delivery carts by manpower and cranes. Other cargo was being loaded on to outgoing trains, while the occasional passenger train rumbled through on its way to Waterloo Bridge.

We made our way over to the row of offices set back from the platform, and found ourselves faced with yet another London and South Western clerk. This time, it was an alert young man, clearly a better example of his profession. Behind him was a door with a frosted window, bearing the legend "The Offices of the London and South Western Railway".

"Gentlemen," said the clerk in clipped tones. "What may I do for you?"

Holmes rapped the counter with his knuckles. "I would like to speak to the Station Master if at all possible."

"He is rather busy at the moment..."

"It is a matter of some urgency, as it concerns a misplaced train." Holmes pulled his card from his breast pocket and handed it to the young man. "Show him this. If he is engaged, tell him we will wait."

The clerk turned and went off to find his superior. We had hardly sat down on the bench when the from behind the door, a massive ginger-haired man appeared. He came around the counter and offered his large hand to Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes," he said in a deep, booming highland brogue. "I cannae tell you what a pleasure it is to make your acquaintance. I'm Duncan Frasier, the Master here."

"The pleasure is mine, Master Frasier, though I must confess that my coming may be something of an ill omen. This is my friend and colleague, the able bodied Doctor Watson."

The big man shook my hand as well. "Of course, the famous chronicler. Who could mistake you, sir. Now, what's this business about a missing train?"

"We are investigating a lost shipment and are given to understand that it did not arrive at Waterloo on the night before last as intended. I must hasten to add that the engineer Peter Flanders has not been seen or heard from since that time."

"Well, that is rather uncanny, but it's not unheard of for one of the iron horse jockeys to go on the lam for a little while. Got enough of them to handle the work, no point begrudging one a few days' leave."

"That may be, but it is still vital that we find him. I would also like the name of whoever tallied the engines on the night in question."

Frasier conferred for a moment with the clerk. "The night watchman on duty that night would been old Nate Kelly. A right codger, but he's never been known to make a mistake on the roster."

"Would you kindly summon him? I would like to have him close at hand before we inspect the roundhouse."

Frasier nodded to the clerk, who disappeared behind the door.

"Nate will be along in a jiffy, he lives just up the road."

"Holmes, should we not look at the roster to see if number 544 came in?" I suggested.

"It would go far in confirming the matter, at least in ink," Holmes agreed. "Master Frasier?"

The Scot reached behind the desk and pulled out a massive leather portfolio. He opened the ledger to the night in question, and sure enough, there was the scrawled notation. If correct, the 544 should have been resting her wheels in the roundhouse on track four.

"That puts us a step further, at least," I said brightly, but Holmes pursed his lips.

"It is suggestive. Though it does not indicate the location of the freight. Do you have records of which boxcars go out?"

Frasier shook his head. "More often than not, it is up to the switcher engineers to line up the cars. There's so many of 'em it would be more trouble than it's worth to keep track, so we rely on the engine numbers. Ah, here comes Nate."

A short, grizzled man with pale skin and beady brown eyes ambled into the office. "Here, now, Master Duncan, what is this about? I'm not due for me shift for hours."

"We will try not to keep you, Nate. These gentlemen are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. We are just going to go down to the roundhouse to satisfy their curiosity."

"What did ye have to fetch me for? Ye could manage aright without me."

"I may want your recollections, Mr. Kelly," Holmes said sternly. "Please, lead the way."

Grumbling under his breath, Kelly beckoned and our party made its way through the depot and out to the train yard.

"Step careful, lads," Frasier warned cheerfully. "The engines move slow enough in the yard, but they cannae break fast enough if you run afoul of 'em."

The roundhouse was a vast semi-circle of brick, housing at least a dozen of the familiar green-liveried locomotives. Kelly led us over to track four, where a stately green 415 class Radial Tank steam locomotive sat with the numbers "544" emblazoned on it.

"Mr. Kelly, did you see this engine return to the yard on the night before last?"

"I saw a great many engines come through the yard, Mr. Holmes," the old man said stubbornly. "S'not my job to keep track of the comings and goings, just them what's already here."

"Do you know if it came with a boxcar? If that car was moved at all?"

"I tell ye, I wouldn't have known it more than I'd know one sparrow from a flock of a 'undred. Can I make meself plainer? Ye like as not find your car in the river as in the yard, Mr. Holmes."

"Very well, Mr. Kelly," sighed Holmes. "I suppose we can do nothing more at the moment. I thank you for your time."

The old miser wandered away without another word.

I turned to Holmes. "I hate to admit it, but he might be right. Our car could be anywhere between here and Salisbury."

"Tis true," Frasier agreed. "There are close on four hundred in the yard now, on fifteen different tracks. It would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack."

"It may be," Holmes said. "But I refuse to be undone by idioms, Master Frasier. We will search every one if necessary, but there are still a number of possibilities that we must explore first."

"Well, then? What next?" I asked, glancing down at my pocket watch.

"I think we should go to Balgravia to apprise Mr. Dover of our progress. Master Frasier, thank you very much for your assistance," Holmes again offered his hand to the big Scot, who shook it firmly.

"It was nothing at all, Mr. Holmes. Glad to assist in any way I can," he said jovially.

...

Shortly after arriving at 84 Belgrave Mews, we found Mr. Dover had been greatly anticipating our arrival. However, his excitement quickly evaporated upon hearing our news.

"Are you telling me that y'all managed to find the engine, but not the cargo?" said the Texan incredulously.

"That is correct," Holmes said shortly.

"What the hell use is that?" he demanded, his agitation clearly increasing along with the twang of his accent.

"Take heart, Mr. Dover," said Holmes in a would-be pacifying tone, but he could not keep a bite of impatience out of his voice. "Do not think I have exhausted my options."

"Oh, really?" Dover said sarcastically, pacing back and forth. "What other options have you considered?"

"There are a dozen instances where bribery could have been employed by the thieves," I offered, without effect.

"And in the mean time, I lose face and profit!" Dover growled.

"I advise you not to over-exert yourself," Holmes said severely. "I have said that I would recover your property, and I shall, Mr. Dover. I will wire you when we have more information."

...

"I say, he's rather high-strung," I remarked as the cab trundled up Baker Street. "If I were in his position, I would prefer to cut my losses than torture my nerves in such a way."

"Certainly more extreme than I expected," Holmes agreed. "There is something underneath all this bother about tea, and whatever it is, I daresay it has captured my interest more than the prospect of fulfilling my commission."

He stepped out of the hansom, tipped the cabbie and turned to face me. "I cannot promise fresh game tomorrow, but I would be very glad if you could join me, Watson"

"Absolutely, Holmes," I replied. "I shall be at my practice all evening, should you need me."


	4. Interlude: The Diary of Sherlock Holmes

Excerpt from a journal found in J.H. Watson's strong box, marked S.H. - 1890-1981

November 10th, 1890

No sleep again tonight. Have considered the morphia, but I think of W's disappointed face. Is it not enough that I use the needle to quicken my temperament when I am short of work? Am I so weak that I must resort to it like some ailing invalid?

How keenly it still bites. Those memories are still as fresh as ever in my mind, and in these idle times, I find my dreams interrupted by their constant invasion. They set my mind racing and my heart beats a tattoo in my breast, like some poor bird trying to escape its cage.

Those lips, that smile. Those claws. Keenly they bite.


	5. The Invitation

_Sussex Downs, May 2, 1926_

_Friend Watson,_

_Forgive me for my delayed response. You know I have never been the best of correspondents, and I am afraid that as I get older, the habit will only get worse. That isn't to say that age has got the better of me, but rather that I simply do not find life has the same urgency as it did when we spent our days trawling the criminal underworld. For you, I will always make the exception, and I beg your indulgence for my tardiness. Let me now continue my narrative. _

_As you know, I was not remotely honest with you at breakfast that day, and I did get the impression you were not completely convinced. You were twisting the end of your mustache and giving me that searching gaze you always had whenever you were troubled. I toyed with the idea of telling you the truth, but as I never expected to treat with the lady again, it seemed pointless. I do not now know whether it would have changed the course of events, but I am getting ahead of myself. _

_We left Nine Elms none the wiser. After you departed for your practice, I took lunch at the Diogenes Club. Brother Mycroft was away on some government errand, for which I was very thankful. I had not come to consult him, but rather to escape the remonstrations of Mrs. Hudson, who had not quite forgiven me for the state I had left my rooms in the day before. I did not get back to Baker Street until half past seven, and was accosted by my erstwhile landlady before I could escape into my rooms. She held out a message for me, bearing the seal of the Hotel Grand._

_"I do believe it is from a lady, Mr. Holmes. I can't for the life of me recall when you last received a message from a lady in the evening," she said, a twinkle in her eye. _

_I gave a snort of distaste and flipped it over. It was a woman's handwriting, a familiar flowing script. I slit it open and read it quickly. The missive was brief, but had the curious effect of bringing forth the memorable occasion of when I had last read a letter penned by its author. It read as follows:_

Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

I want to apologize for the dreadful trick I played on you last night. Like you, I confess I have a weakness for the dramatic, and when I saw the opportunity, I simply could not stop myself. I hope you can forgive my antics.

I have been invited to perform Monteverdi's _Il lamento d'Arianna_ tonight at St. James's Hall. I would be honoured if you would attend, and even more honoured if you might join me for dinner afterwards.

Irene Norton

_I folded the letter and tapped it against my lips, then slipped it into my pocket. Mrs. Hudson gave me an expectant look. _

_"Shall I bring up tea, Mr. Holmes?"_

_"Coffee, Mrs. Hudson," I said with a small sigh. "And lay out my evening things. I believe I will be dining out tonight."_

_I feel I know you so well by now, Watson, that I can almost see the look of shock on your face. Why would I, the most resolute and abstinent bachelor in London, accept such an invitation? I myself could hardly account for it, except to say that I was by now deeply curious as to the meaning of Mrs. Norton's presence in London. I would be lying if I said that the woman herself did not intrigue me. She intrigues me still, her spirit mocking me from beyond the plutonian shore, whispering vicious sweet nothings in my ear._

_I arrived just in time for her performance. She was again in the role of female delicacy, clad in some demure blue thing you would have gone to great lengths to describe. More interesting to me was the quality of her voice, an instrument I had not yet been privileged to hear. She did not mar the performance with any of that needless flapping about that modern opera singers call "acting", but took to the stage with dignity and poise. _

_It was easy to see why the premier opera companies of Europe had vied for her. She was an exquisite virtuoso, delivering Arianna's anguished lament with absolute conviction. One hears a voice like that but once in a lifetime. Even now, my heart breaks a little when I try and strain for the memory of those pure, ringing notes. _

_I was but three rows from the stage, and I could see her watching me. I felt the viceral shudder one feels when affected by that resonant noise we call music, that strange scientific arrangement of notes that seems to strike at the heart of us. Of course, my pleasure was purely aesthetic, but for a moment, I was almost moved._

_She finished the mournful aria with appropriate sorrow, curtsied prettily, and smiled at me. I inclined my head. _

_I met her in the alley behind the theater. She was accompanied by a pair of footmen, who she instructed to retrieve her carriage. She then turned to me, and offered her hand. I bent over it perfunctorily._

_"A masterly performance, Mrs. Norton, if I may say so. You are a great credit to the art," I said, offering my arm as the coach approached the entrance to the alley. She took it, and we made our way over to the four wheeler._

_"You are too effusive, Mr. Holmes," she purred. "I knew you had an ear for Wagner, but I did not take you for a connoisseur of opera."_

_"Only in its finest form, madam. It is an oft abused medium."_

_"How true," she laughed as she got into the carriage. "Especially in England."_

_"Quite."_

_I am quite happy to admit that she was my superior in her knowledge of the craft, so I asked her for her opinions on contemporary opera. Our conversation carried us the mile to the hotel. I escorted Mrs. Norton into the lounge, where she was relieved of her wrap. We were then shown into the dining room and seated at madam's usual table. I noted it was in a corner ideal for observing the comings and goings of all of the extravagant foreign gentry; the table I would have chosen for myself had I been a solitary patron._

_Champagne was called for, and dinner ordered. I inquired after a cigar. Upon receipt, I turned my attention to my companion._

_"So, Mrs. Norton. You must have some motive for asking me here tonight."_

_"It can't simply be for the pleasure of your company?" she asked sweetly, her eyes watching me over the rim of her champagne glass._

_"I doubt," said I. "That you would be so bold in the presence of your husband. Who I notice is conspicuously absent." _

_"On business in France."_

_"And when you are apart, is it your custom to flirt so shamelessly with bachelors?"_

_"Mr. Holmes!" she said, pretending to be scandalized. "How can you accuse me of such a thing?"_

_I smiled, and sampled the champagne, which was excellent. "With little difficulty. I should inform you that will avail you nothing, but if it amuses you, pray continue."_

_"Then I should inform you, sir, that I rarely flirt," she said firmly, a glint in her eye. "If I want something, I take it."_

_"Such as the king's photograph?" _

_She pursed her lips. "You are unjust. It was also my photograph."_

_I tapped the ash off my cigar. "You absconded with it for the purposes of blackmail."_

_"Personal revenge, Mr. Holmes, which I chose not to exact," she said evenly. "I was under the impression that you were in sympathy with my conduct."_

_"So you have read Dr. Watson's little account of the affair," I said._

_"With some interest," she replied, twisting the stem of her glass. "According to your friend, you paid me several compliments. Is it true you keep my photograph in your desk drawer?"_

_"Between a .38 and my hypodermic kit."_

_"How sentimental you are."_

_Dinner arrived in short order. Having been much exerted that day, my appetite was good. I took to my bloody steak with vigour and we ate in silence for a period of time. My hunger was soon satisfied, and I took the liberty of pouring myself and my companion another glass of champagne._

_"Mrs. Norton, you said you were here visiting old friends. Whom did you mean?"_

_She took one last dainty bite of salmon, then set down her fork. "Friends from America, who happen to be in the country."_

_"How long do you plan to remain in the country?"_

_"I don't know what you expect to gain by interrogating me, Mr. Holmes," she said, faintly annoyed._

_"Remember, I am here under protest, so I must make good use of my time," I said with a smile. "Shall we walk on the terrace? The night is still fine."_

_She considered me imperiously for a moment, then nodded her assent. _

_I signaled the maitre'd for a fresh cigar, and finished the rest of my champagne, then rose and offered the lady my hand. She took it, and we made our way outside. _

_Once on the terrace, Mrs. Norton fished out her cigarette case from some hidden pocket in her skirts. She removed a cunningly contrived silver holder and fitted one of the thin cigarettes into it. I struck a match and lit it for her, cupping my hand to protect the flame from the slight breeze. _

_"I must admit, I was quite surprised to see you in attendance," she said frankly. "I did not expect you to accept my invitation." _

_"Any other woman, I probably would have declined," I admitted, gazing out at the moonlit square. "Especially as my mind is at present occupied."_

_"Ah. A case?" she inquired, head cocked. _

_I looked at her. "I am not at liberty to say."_

_"Surely one or two details would not hurt."_

_I sighed. "Some freight went missing on route from Plymouth."_

_"Dear me," she said. "That sounds somewhat trivial for the great Sherlock Holmes."_

_I arched a brow. "It certainly appears trivial when one does not have the full story."_

_"I suppose I shall simply have to wait until your friend Dr. Watson publishes an account."_

_"I suppose you will."_

_A slight coolness had sprung up between us, and we smoked in silence for a long moment. She lit a fresh cigarette off the old one and flicked the butt over the parapet. Then she turned to me._

_"Why do you tread so lightly around me, Mr. Holmes?"_

_"I do not know if your motives are deeply subtle or intensely frivolous."_

_She laughed. "You are very cruel, you know. If I were sensitive, I might take offense."_

_I chuckled. "I would not want to give offense to you, my dear. It would not be in my best interest."_

_"You do not trust me a whit, do you?" she said, blowing out a long stream of smoke. _

_I turned to her, and chewed my cigar for a moment, thinking about how I could diplomatically phrase my answer."I trust almost no one, Mrs. Norton, and I beg you not to take it personally. I especially do not trust women. Women have a greater talent for deceit than men."_

_"And you think I am deceitful?" she asked lightly._

_"I think, given past events, it is possible you could deceive me."_

_"Only possible?" she pouted. "You are not very charitable, Mr. Holmes."_

_"You have deceived me once before, and so I must take especial care that I should not allow you to do so again."_

_She leaned up against the railing and looked at me thoughtfully. "You always have some stratagem."_

_"I find the best defense is to observe the niceties and assume duplicity. With men, I will leave a little room for doubt, but never with women. That way I do not make mistakes."_

_"Yes," she said, a somewhat dreamy expression crossing her features. "It is the greatest mistake to assume anything is as it is painted."_

_I stared at her. Watson, you how it is with me when a single word manages to fire off a synapse that had hitherto lain dormant in my mind. As if a gear wheel was clicking into place, I was suddenly quite aware of the magnitude of my stupidity. _

_"Mrs. Norton," I said quickly, turning to her. "I am afraid I must leave."_

_She gave me a puzzled look. "What, now?"_

_"Immediately."_

_"Is my company that objectionable to you?" she asked haughtily. I caught up her hand and kissed it swiftly._

_"I assure you, it is not that. Quite the reverse. Please forgive me."_

_With that, I tossed my cigar over the parapet, turned on my heel and dashed away. _

_It is an abused axiom that a pattern of events is always more easily discernible in retrospect, but I have always had a talent for anticipating such patterns. My friend, I was quite simply outflanked. Now, of course, it is glaringly obvious that there was no single event during the case of the missing London and South Western that was not connected. _

_Forgive me, I must lay down my pen for the evening. I shall resume this chronicle as soon as I am able. Fare thee well, good Watson._

_Yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_


	6. Engine 544?

It was perhaps a little after eleven o' clock when I heard the bell jangle violently. I was midway through pouring a night cap for myself and had planned afterwards to follow my wife to bed, but I knew at once that any hopes of a restful night were dashed. However, I was pleased to see it was not a purveyor of some medical emergency, but Sherlock Holmes who stood on my doorstep, clad in full dress and looking as if he had just come from some state function. He doffed his hat.

"Watson, I am so sorry to come round so horribly late. Would you come with me? I have a cab waiting. Oh, and bring your service revolver."

Once in the cab, Holmes became deaf to my queries. I took his silence to be a deep meditation, evidenced by his attitude. His brows were knit together, and his steepled fingers were pressed against his lips.

A half an hour later, we were at Nine Elms. The streets were deserted except for one raggedy street arab who was sheltering next to a loading dock. Holmes tossed the cabbie a half- sovereign and raced into the depot with alarming speed. I followed in his wake as quickly as I could, and we dashed up the length of the platform and out into the yard. The tracks around the roundhouse were stocked with boxcars. We had to slow our pace and step with great care over the rails, slipping between the cars until we at last came to the narrow walk. Holmes went to one of the workmen's benches and found a lantern. Striking a match, he lit the wick and we hurried over to track number four.

The light illuminated the handsome green-liveried engine, with the blocky 544 rendered on the water tank. Wordlessly, he handed the lantern to me, and indicated that I should shine it on the designation. He then drew out a pen knife, and by the light of the lantern, he began to gently scratch at the painted numerals. It was agonizingly slow work, the paint coming off in small chips to reveal different number beneath. He worked carefully to remove the paint so that the underlying numbers were not damaged. After twenty minutes, he had managed to uncover the top half of a completely different designation: 661. I exhaled a breath I'd been holding.

"My God, Holmes, what does it mean?"

"That this business goes far deeper than a simple robbery. Watson, I have been utterly blind."

Suddenly there was the noise of footsteps. The beam of another lantern flashed.

"Oi!" croaked a familiar voice. It was Nate Kelly, the night watchman. "Yer trespassing here!"

"Calm yourself, sir," Holmes called back. "It is I, Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh, so I see," The old man walked over. "What're ye doing crawling around here in the dead o' night? And what's this? Vandalism, is it?"

"Look closer, Mr. Kelly." Holmes took the lantern and held it up to the numbers. Kelly peered at it, and gave a small cough.

"I don't know what ye mean by it-"

"Mr. Kelly," Holmes interrupted, menace creeping into his voice. "It does not add up, that this should occur during your watch and you should not know of it."

"I say I know nothing of it," but there was a fearful quaver in the man's voice.

"Come now, out with it," Holmes said fiercely. "Were you bribed? By whom? Tell me now, or the Yard will have it from you."

Kelly swayed.

"I weren't bribed, sir, please," there was a faint sob in his voice. "Have mercy. I was told on pain of death not to speak of it. I didn't know what they were doing. Ye must believe me."

"Details, man!"

But the old man quailed. Holmes make an indistinct noise in his throat.

"Never mind," he said sternly. "I think I may paint a clear enough picture. The night before last you were set upon during your rounds, blindfolded and forcibly detained for a period of time. Did you see any of your assailants?"

The old man shook his head. "Only the gun, and only that it was pearl handled. After that I only felt it under me chin. The one holding it to me whispered that me brains'd be blown out the top of me head afore I'd get a chance to squeal. Mr. Holmes, they knew me name, me flat number."

Holmes glared at him. "You must tell the police, Kelly. Otherwise you will be taken in compliance."

The old man shook his head stubbornly. "Better the dock than the grave, Mr. Holmes."

"Get you to the office and wait for me there," Holmes ordered. The old man did not hesitate, but made his way quickly back towards the platform.

"Come, Watson, we have not a moment to lose!" my companion hissed. He seized a crowbar from the bench and we made our way back out to the yard.

We ran from track to track, flashing the lantern hither and thither. Holmes bent down for all the world like a tracking blood hound, sniffing the air as he went, until finally we came to an engine marked 661, with one boxcar attached.

"See here, Watson," he pointed the lantern at the gravel beneath the water tank, where tiny splashes of green and yellow paint were visible, then rubbed his thumb against the tank and lifted it to his nose.

"Turpentine," he said. "Had they been so clumsy with the counterfeit in the roundhouse, I would had detected it immediately. Come, help me with the car."

With our combined strength applied to the crowbar, we were able to wrench the door open. I held the lamp for Holmes as he heaved himself into the car, and handed it back to him once he'd gotten his feet. From where I was standing, I could see by the dim light a stack of crates tucked to one side, each with the words _Himalayan Tea Co_ stamped across them in bold letters. On the other side of the car was a prone figure. Holmes hastened over to the figure, who proved to be a man, bound and gagged, unconscious. With his pen knife, Holmes cut the man's bonds and gently slapped his cheek. The man's eyes fluttered and he moaned.

"Peter Flanders, I presume. Watson?"

With seemingly little effort, he seized Flanders under the arms and dragged him over to the edge of the ingress. I caught hold of the man around the waist and did my best to steady him; together we lowered him down to the gravel. He was somewhat emaciated, having spent a number of days without food or water. I immediately dosed him with some brandy. He seemed to recover somewhat, and I propped him up against one of the boxcar wheels.

From inside the car, I heard Holmes make a sudden exclamation. I looked up from my charge to see him levering at one of the boxes with the crowbar. The top came off easily, and I saw that the nails had already been bent away. Holmes lifted one of the paper-wrapped bricks of tea to his nose, and made a small indistinct noise of surprise. He made as if to replace it, then instead slipped it into his pocket. He then turned his attention to the other crates, all of which appeared to have been treated the same way. He proceeded to noisily kick each of them open, until-

"Hello, what do we have here!"

He beckoned for the lantern, which I passed to him. He cast the beam over his prize. Sitting atop the tea bricks was an a bulging white envelope. He opened it and pulled a folded note, and more curious, a delicate dried rose with a short stem attached. He gave the rose a moment's expressionless contemplation, tucked it inside his jacket, then proceeded to open the note. It was evidently a short missive, for he read it quickly. An expression of shock crossed his face, and for a moment he was absolutely silent, then let out a great whoop of laughter.

I was about to inquire as to the reason for his obvious delight, but was interrupted by a tiny groan from Peter Flanders, who appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Holmes!" I said urgently. "This man has been without food or drink for days. We must get him back to the office and get something in him without delay."

"Yes," Holmes agreed, a breathless note of hilarity still in his voice. "Yes, of course, forgive me."

He jumped down from the boxcar and assisted me in lifting the ailing man. With each of his arms slung over our shoulders, we dragged him across the yard and back to the station.

We went into the office and found the night watchman Nate Kelly sleeping on the bench, one arm around a bottle of gin and clearly stupefied with drink. Holmes let go of Flanders, crossed over to Kelly with one stride, drew back his hand and delivered a stinging slap across the man's face. Kelly woke spluttering, a red welt already beginning to colour his cheek.

"What did ye have to do that for!" the night watchman raised a hand to his face and winced.

"Get up, you gin-soaked idiot!" Holmes barked, his eyes blazing. "Go to the telegraph office and wire Scotland Yard that Inspector Lestrade is immediately wanted here by myself."

The old man hesitated, his hand still pressed against his cheek.

Holmes fixed him with his most dangerous, stone cold stare and growled, "Kelly, your negligence has already nearly cost this man his life. If you do not do as I say, you will be taken as accessory in attempted murder. Go at once!"

"Sir," he wobbled slightly as he bowed, and turned to do as he was bid.

I called out to him, "Once you have done that, bring back biscuits and water."

He grunted and disappeared behind the frosted glass door.

I lowered my burden down on to the bench and fetched out my brandy again. I wet his lips and gave him a very small dose. His eyes fluttered.

"Sir, can you speak? Are you Peter Flanders?" I asked gently.

He blinked up at me, and opened his mouth as if to speak, but could not emit more than a croak, so he nodded weakly.

"Don't exert yourself. I'm a doctor." I took the man's pulse, which was irregular. "You've been locked in a boxcar for three days."

Nate Kelly returned, a tin of biscuits in one hand, a carafe of water in the other. I took them from him, and the old man sat down on the bench and watched Holmes with wary eyes.

"On me honour, I only took a drop in to steady me nerves, Mr. Holmes," he said a pleading voice.

"Spare us the platitudes, man," Holmes said coldly. "You should have immediately raised the alarm after you were assaulted. Instead this man suffered days of imprisonment because of your cowardice."

Kelly cringed as if Holmes had struck him again, and said no more.

While we waited for the inspector, I ministered to Flanders, giving him a few sips of water and then letting him take pieces of biscuit soaked in brandy. After a little while, I sent Kelly for tea. By the time he'd returned, Inspector Lestrade had arrived, looking somewhat hollow-eyed.

"Well, Mr. Holmes. It is rather late, but I got your telegram," he said wearily, looking from Flanders to Kelly. "What is this all about?"

Holmes pulled out his cigarette case, took one for himself and then offered one to Lestrade, which the inspector accepted. Then he turned to me.

"First, Watson, tell me if Mr. Flanders here is recovered enough to give us a statement, or if we should take him first to a hospital."

I found that small draughts of hot tea had revived Flanders considerably.

"Take a few moments," I said. He took the mug of tea and began to drink of his own accord.

Holmes turned his attention to Lestrade. "Let me give you a precursor. I summoned you here to take statements from these men about the mischief done against them. First, Mr. Flanders, who has been trapped in a box car for a number of days, and Mr. Kelly, who was held hostage by the same miscreants."

"My word," said the inspector with a smile. "You really do bring in the snorters, Mr. Holmes. I would like to know how you became involved in this business."

"I have been engaged to recover some property that was travelling by special from Plymouth to Waterloo. Sometime after Salisbury, the train was missed, wherein I was called on to locate it," Holmes inhaled deeply, and a thin stream of smoke issued from his nostrils. "It appears that the thieves hijacked the train and drove it here. They detained Mr. Kelly at gunpoint, then took great pains to alter the engine's designation, changing it for another as to conceal the true engine. I found that engine with its boxcar intact, and upon searching it, discovered Mr. Flanders, bound and gagged."

"It's true," Flanders said in a hoarse voice. "It was just outside of Salisbury, before I got back up to speed. It was getting dark when someone jumped into the cab and clapped a rag full of ether to my mouth. When I awoke, I was in that boxcar all trussed up like a chicken. With no one to hear me, I was without a hope in the world, until these gentlemen came to my rescue."

He leaned back against the bench, as if winded.

"Holmes, this man is in need of greater attention than I can provide here," I said quickly.

"Of course, we have taxed poor Flanders enough," Holmes looked at me. "Watson, would you be good enough to summon a four wheeler while we take Mr. Kelly's statement?"

I made my way out to the street. It was still empty, except for the raggedy looking youth I had seen upon our arrival, who now appeared to be awake. He sidled up to me.

"Spare us a shilling, guv?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Here's a half crown. Run down the road and fetch a four wheeler, and there'll be another half crown for it when you return."

Once we had remanded our charge to the care of Westminster Hospital, Holmes took Inspector Lestrade aside.

"Lestrade, I want you to come tomorrow at ten-thirty in the morning. Ten-thirty exact," he instructed. "Bring Inspector Gregson, and a police wagon."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes, but for what purpose?" the inspector asked, puzzled. "Do you mean you can deliver these scoundrels?"

"Not exactly, but I think you will find it quite worth your while," Holmes said, raising his hand for a cab. "Goodnight, Inspector."

...

As was our custom, Holmes and I shared a cab home. I was groggy, but I could see he was writhing with anticipation by the way he was drumming his fingers frenetically on his knee.

"Holmes, what was in the letter?" I asked as we pulled up to 221 B. He disembarked from the cab and gave me a Cheshire Cat grin.

"Come early for breakfast, Watson. All will be revealed. Good night, my dear fellow!"

He had disappeared behind his door before I could ask again. I let out a sigh and knocked the roof of the cab, my mind immediately turning to my bed.


	7. Interlude: The Ghost

The Journal

December 2nd, 1890

Dreams still plague me, so not much sleep, but it hardly matters. I've been in a narcotic induced haze and waking dreams come to me. Phantoms from the past float in and out of my mind, and lately I've been visited by one in particular

Her name was Bridget Hannigan. She was the only child of the Natural Philosophy master, a year older than me, pretty in the fashion of the Black Irish, but not beautiful.

Her father had moved himself and his daughter from Dublin after becoming a widower. Like me, she disdained the society of others. She had only a year before she would take a scholarship to Girton College. I myself had been offered a place at Sidney Sussex.

At 17 I was an introvert, but I was a good quick student and was accustomed to assisting the masters in marking papers and other little academic chores. In that capacity, Master Hannigan had engaged me to tutor Bridget in chemistry, but in a strange reversal of roles I found myself her student. I had my first lessons in sexual congress from her, and while I can't say whether I acquitted myself with any particular skill, I did find the experience enjoyable. We would steal moments in the church yard, under cover of darkness.

I quite fancied myself in love, and was convinced that we would both attend Cambridge and that I would marry her. The depth of my naiveté was inestimable. It didn't take the little Gaelic slut long to break me of my delusions.

Instead of accepting her scholarship to Girton, she became engaged to a Lord Henry Riley. They married in the fall.

I did not become angry. I became cold. I swore never again to waste my affections on the perfidious female sex. After she abandoned me, I took up boxing in an effort to channel my cold-fired rage. I buried myself in my studies and the next year, took my place at Sidney Sussex.

Two years later, I read the obituary of the Lady Bridget Riley, who had died in child birth. I felt no remorse, and perhaps a little relief, knowing I might have been her widower. Such as it was, the turn of events was to me entirely satisfactory.

I see her now, sitting cross-legged in Watson's chair. Her head is cocked and that ironical, pitying smile is on her lips.

Such a sweet boy, says the death's head.

Since then, I have had few intimate encounters. I have come to the conclusion that services of a Parisian streetwalker will give one more satisfaction than the affectation of regard.

I am beginning to sober. Time for another dose.


	8. Tea and Roses

I arrived at Baker Street at half past eight, and found Sherlock Holmes standing bent over the breakfast table. He appeared to be in the process of boiling water for tea. Having never before seen him prepare his own tea, I was immediately curious.

"Holmes," said I, sidling over to the table. "Why are you making tea?"

"I am performing an experiment," he said, beckoning to me to sit down. "Would you care to assist me?"

"There are no opiates involved, are there?" I asked warily, taking my seat.

He laughed. "Have no fear, Watson. It is simply to test a little theory of mine."

He pulled out the package of tea he had taken from the shipment last night, and carefully unwrapped it. Inside was a finely woven rattan box, and inside that, a quantity of dark tea leaves.

Holmes portioned a little of the tea into two cups, and proceeded to pour the boiling water over it. He let it brew for a few minutes, and then lifted one cup to his lips and took a small sip.

"Well?" I asked, feeling quite silly.

"Excellent, but not, I am afraid, the illustrious, and I may say, fictional Annapurna Purple Star," he took another sip, and set down his cup. "Rather, it is a very fine Darjeeling, the premier of Indian teas. Spring Flush, if I am not mistaken."

I lifted my cup and took a cautious sip. It was indeed, a very excellent and flavourful tea.

"Very nice, as you say, Holmes, but what does it prove?"

"It confirms what I have believed to be true," he sat back in his chair, and rested his chin on his steepled fingers. "Mr. Dover has not been on the level with us. Not on the level at all. Watson, would you be kind enough to retrieve my revolver from the desk drawer? I think we will want it close at hand."

Mrs. Hudson brought up breakfast in short order. I myself was starving and dug into my ham and potatoes with alacrity. Holmes took no nourishment, excepting a few bites of dry toast. He sat in quiet meditation, his eyes languid and half closed. It was 10 o clock when we heard the doorbell ring. Holmes pushed the revolver towards me, and I pocketed it.

Malcolm Dover made his way into the room, appearing to be excited and in good spirits. He took a seat on the sofa and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward in an eager attitude.

"I got your telegram, Mr. Holmes, and I'm pleased to hear you found my merchandise."

"Quite," said Holmes, pushing himself up from the chair. "Mr. Dover, would you care for a cup of tea?"

"Thank you, no," said our guest with a slightly puzzled expression.

"Are you sure?" Holmes pressed, a hint of smile coming to his lips. "I have recently come into possession of some fine Darjeeling Spring Flush."

The Texan shot up, affronted. "Mr. Holmes, I don't know what tricks you are trying to play with me-"

Holmes held up a hand. Slowly, he reached into his inner pocket and withdrew the dried rose. Twisting the stem in his fingers, he smiled at his client like a cat with a canary.

"Do you know what this is?"

The Texan sat back down, and licked his lips. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked weakly.

"I assure you it is not, sir," Holmes said, his grin broadening. I could hear heavy footfalls on the stairs. Suddenly, Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson had appeared in the doorway.

"Ah, welcome, gentlemen. You have arrived just in time," said Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade with a nod. "I take it you are well? I have brought Gregson along as you requested."

"A good thing, too," Gregson said with a nasty chuckle. "Always glad to give my assistance to the less able."

Lestrade glared at his rival, clearly biting back some caustic remark.

"Who are these men?" Dover demanded, looking at Holmes.

"Forgive me," Holmes said. "These are Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson. As there have been some criminal elements around this case, I thought it best to enlist their aid."

"I thought my instructions were clear. I want no police involvement!" Dover hissed, incensed.

"Get out of it, sir," Gregson snapped. "If Mr. Holmes thinks our presence is warranted, you had best go along with him."

Having be thus chastised, Dover glared at him, looking more and more like a cornered animal. His cowboy bravado was starting to wither away.

Holmes withdrew a note from his inside pocket, and shook it open. It was the note we had found in the shipment.

"I have here another little curiosity from our adventure last night. It is typewritten, but I believe I know from whence it came. Shall I read it?"

Without waiting for an answer, he proceeded to read it aloud.

_"Dear Jack, _

_"After our last parting, I never anticipated that I would take up my pen to write to you again. I have been in the country for a little while, and in reading the papers, was pleased to discover a mutual acquaintance of ours had recently made his way into London. I knew that you must also be in the neighbourhood, and I hastened to London with the idea of paying a visit. _

_"However, our last parting was such a sorrowful one, and I had not the heart to bring myself round to see you again. I must beg your forgiveness and instead leave a small token of my regard._

_Ever affectionate,_

_Your Jessie._

_P.S. I was surprised and gratified to receive your gift, and assure you that it went very far in addressing past grievances._

Malcolm Dover did not move. He looked at Holmes, his whole body quivering. Suddenly he sprang up and tried to dash for the door, but Gregson had caught up with him. The burly inspector body-checked Dover into the wall and held him there while Lestrade rushed to apply the darbies.

But Dover had freed one hand from Gregson, and was able to pull a .38 Bulldog from inside his jacket. The gun went off with a deafening bang, and both inspectors sprang back. Holmes jumped to his feet and bounded over the couch, catching Dover by the wrist.

He drove back the hand holding the gun, and punched Dover squarely in the temple. The Texan reeled, but continued to fight, and the .38 went off again, the bullet thudding harmlessly into the floor. I was able to get behind him, and pressed the barrel of my revolver to the back of his head.

"Drop it," I ordered.

Dover let the gun fall to the floor. Holmes knelt down and picked it up, flipping open the cylinder and dumping out the bullets. Then he turned to Lestrade and Gregson. "Are either of you injured?"

"Just my pride," said Gregson, holding up a sleeve, which showed a powder burn. "Close thing, though. Lestrade?"

"I'm well enough, though my ears are ringing," said Lestrade. Then he turned to Dover. "What did you go and do that for, man? You've just cooked yourself for dinner!"

"It's no good," said Dover, clearly somewhat dazed by the blow he'd received. "I knew I was cooked the moment I saw that accursed thing." he pointed to the dried rose on the breakfast table.

"What the devil do you mean?" Lestrade turned to Holmes. "Mr. Holmes, you must explain."

"Of course," said Holmes, who was still holding Dover by the wrist. "Perhaps you should hand me those bracelets, and then I can clear up this business."

Lestrade tossed over the handcuffs, and Holmes quickly fitted them around Dover's wrists. Then he nodded to me, and I nudged Dover down onto the couch, pointing the muzzle of the revolver at his head.

"Gentlemen," Holmes said, indicating our captive, who looked murder at him. "Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Jack Rose."

"Jack Rose!" Gregson cried. "Jack Rose of the Bowery Rose Gang?"

"The very same," Holmes said, then turned to me. "Watson, would you be good enough to pull "R" down from the shelf?"

I passed the revolver to Lestrade and went to the shelf to retrieve the volume.

"Look for Rose, Jessica."

I leafed through and found the requisite page and began to read aloud.

"Jessica Rose, wife of Jack Rose, the notorious gold smuggler. Mr.- and Mrs. Rose were the joint leaders of the Bowery Rose Gang, a New York criminal syndicate with dealings in the Indian gold smuggling trade, and other forms of racketeering.

"The gang was disbanded after the arrest of Mrs. Rose, and the escape of her husband. It is believed the latter engineered the capture of the former in order to secure his own liberty. However, shortly after Mrs. Rose was taken into custody at Sing Sing prison, she managed to escape. Her whereabouts are currently unknown, and she remains at large.

"How the deuce did she escape?" Lestrade asked, amazed.

"It is not widely known, but I have a correspondence with Mr. Leverton of the Pinkerton Agency," Holmes said. "A number of years ago, he sent me a curious report about a prisoner who had employed the most novel means to effect an escape. It was Jessie Rose's custom to wear a blonde wig as to conceal her identity, and whoever processed her into Sing Sing must have been clumsy about it, for they missed this detail.

"Mrs. Rose had, concealed under the wig, a sponge filled with ether. When the defense council arrived to confer with her, she overcame him using the ether, then calmly took his clothes and put them on. She dressed him in her frock and the wig, then arranged him so that it appeared to be the prisoner herself, sleeping. With a hat pulled down over her face, it wasn't too difficult for her to make her way out of the prison."

"What moxie!" Gregson exclaimed, shaking his head. "I've never heard the like."

"I should think not," said Holmes, who went to load his clay pipe. "The New York police made a great effort to conceal it from the press, lest any other criminal attempt such a caper."

"How on Earth did she trace him?" Lestrade asked, his brow furrowed.

"Ah, now you are being modest, Inspector," Holmes said with a laugh. "Did you and your fellows not recently apprehend the so called Texarkana Strangler, Jacob Hackett? Jack Rose is from the same region in Texas and they have long been confederates in the smuggling business. I think they conspired to leave America together, abandoning Mrs. Rose to her fate."

Holmes returned to his seat, took a pull off his pipe and flipped open the letter. "The significant fact is here. She read about Hackett in the paper and concluded that he and Jack were up to their old game- in this case, smuggling gold in shipments of tea. You recall that Jacob Hackett was working on a ship belonging to the New India Shipping Company. It was the _Queen of Makalu_, chartered by Mr. Rose's company.

"It would have been nothing for Jessie Rose to assess the cargo's route and decide that it would be most vulnerable at Salisbury. She would have had just enough notice to enlist the necessary allies, hijack train 544, and divert the gold along the Salisbury-Portsmouth line using another special. From thence, to the continent.

"Why the second train?" I asked. "Why not just drive the 544 to Portsmouth, instead of bothering with all that Nine Elms business?"

"Two reasons," Holmes said briskly. "First, Mrs. Rose knew the 544 would be looked for along the London and South Western routes and didn't want to bring the authorities to Portsmouth, directly on the trail of the gold. Second, revenge. The trick with switching the numbers at Nine Elms is suggestive that, I flatter myself, she was aware of my reputation and expected I would be brought on the case.

"She knew Mr. Rose needed an unofficial agent. He hired me, to his cost, hoping against hope to find the gold intact and never dreaming that a trap was closing around him. She was confident that I would discover the altered train numbers, the false cargo, the engineer, and most damning, the letter. And of course, this."

Holmes lifted the rose and considered it with a cynical smile.

"She counted on my criminal knowledge and left the rose, knowing I would immediately read its meaning and deal the fatal blow by delivering Mr. Rose into the hands of justice."

"Remarkable. Well, you've just about cleared it up, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade. "We'd best be getting this devil back to the Yard. Come along now, Rose."

Rose, alias Dover, jerked to attention. He leaned towards Holmes, his teeth bared in a vicious snarl. "I'll see you in Hell for this, Holmes. You and that goddamn bitch, so help me God."

Gregson cuffed Rose about the head. "We won't have language like that in Mr. Holmes' sitting room. Get along with you."

The two inspectors dragged the captive roughly down the stairs. We followed behind, and watched as he was manhandled into the Black Maria.

Lestrade turned to Holmes. "I must tell you that we will have a great deal of trouble in bringing in a verdict against Mrs. Rose. Our only witness refuses to testify."

Holmes shrugged. "I expected as much. Nate Kelly did not strike me as a man with the strongest of constitutions, and they did a good job on him."

"There was a street arab loitering outside," I suggested. "It's possible he was there on the night in question."

Holmes turned to look at me, a questioning expression on his face. "What street arab?"

"The one by the loading docks. I gave him two half crowns to fetch us a carriage. Did you not see him?"

"No, I did not," he said, a small frown furrowing his brow. "But never mind."

"There is just one more question," said Gregson.

Holmes had pulled the rose from his pocket, and twisted it around in his fingers, still frowning. I cleared my throat significantly. He did not look up, but motioned to the inspector that he was listening.

"What is to be done about Jessie Rose? We have one villain, but not the other."

Holmes considered the rose for a moment longer, then tucked it into his button hole, and regarded Gregson.

"My advice, inspector, is that you do nothing. It would be a wasted effort," he gave a wan smile. "Even I, with all my cunning and skill, would not attempt to trace so daring and meticulous a criminal agent."


	9. A Crack In The Lense

_Sussex Downs, May 23rd, 1926_

_My dearest Watson,_

_How do you fare, my friend? Please forgive my long silence. I must confess that has been a most difficult letter to write, and I have had to steel myself. As a rule, I am not an emotional fellow, but I find that having searched my recollections, I have come across some painful memories. I think you will recall the years that the use of my poisons increased dramatically, and I never told you why._

_That night, after the conclusion of the Rose affair, I was suddenly struck by the feeling that something was amiss. You know that I am normally most at peace immediately following the closing of a case, when my efforts have culminated into a satisfactory conclusion. It is the best antidote to my insomnia. But it was not so after this case. One o clock in the morning found me awake in my bed, staring up at the ceiling. _

_I feared some detail had been overlooked, and that fear had set my mind racing. It gave me a sense of foreboding, that there was some vital piece I had failed to place in the puzzle, and without it, I had an incomplete picture. I could not be satisfied. It was intolerable. I wrestled with my own mind, trying to dig out the meaning of my agitation, which only increased. You would recognize the symptoms- endless pacing, muttering to myself, dry washing my hands, smoking incessantly. _

_Suddenly, it snapped into place. Your street arab, Watson. The detail I had overlooked, but you had not, though you did not know its meaning. _

_I raced to the sideboard and swept away the debris, searching frantically until I came up with the card that had been left there. It read simply, The Grand, and on the opposite side was the number 216, handwritten. _

_Bypassing the wardrobe, I went straight for the hat rack and seized my overcoat. From thence down into Baker Street, where by chance, one lone cab was waiting for a fare._

_It was clear that Irene Norton had been expecting me. When I arrived at room number 216, the door was unlocked. The woman herself was seated at the table, illuminated by a single lamp and a halo of cigarette smoke. The the late edition spread out before her, and I caught a glance at my own name in the subheading. She rose as I entered, and I could not help but notice she was dressed in only a silk kimono. _

_"Why, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, how nice of you to call," she said in that poisonously sweet voice of hers. _

_I approached her warily. "What were you doing outside Nine Elms last night?"_

_"Whatever do you mean?" she said in a deceptively demure tone, her eyes cold and penetrating. _

_"Last night, when you made an appearance at the station in the guise of a street arab. You were the urchin Watson paid to fetch a carriage, weren't you?"_

_"I told you I was curious about your work," she said lightly, tapping out her cigarette and lighting a fresh one._

_"That is hardly an adequate explanation," I said, taking a seat on the divan. "What exactly do you expect to gain by following me around like a stray poodle?"_

_"Nothing that you need worry about," Mr. Holmes," she said gently, sinking into the wing chair opposite. "It was simply an exercise, nothing more."_

_"If you are practicing to be a detective, I must tell you it takes a great deal more than putting on a pair of trousers and sneaking about, Mrs. Norton."_

_She took a long drag off her cigarette and blew a stream of thick Turkish smoke into my face, making my eyes water._

_"Mr. Holmes," she said, in that maddeningly saccharine tone. "Despite your obvious talents, you are still eminently stupid after the fashion of men, especially if you believe you can compel my actions." _

_"Madam," I said, feeling my temper beginning to rise. "I must warn you. Any woman who sees fit to interfere with my work will find herself in considerable danger, not least because she invites my wrath."_

_At this, she tossed back her magnificent head and began to laugh. It was an unnerving sound, dark contemptuous notes vibrating along my skin, making the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. _

_After a moment, she recovered herself, taking deep breaths. There was a flush rising to her cheeks, and her teeth showed in a sinister smile. _

_"My dear man," she purred. "I am not the one in danger."_

_I thrust myself up from the divan and towered over her, staring down at the impudently smiling face and feeling a shudder of anger course through me. _

_"Mrs. Norton, I must insist that you cease your little games before I lose my good opinion of you," I hissed. "Leaving a card with your room number on it in the possession of a single man is unbecoming of a married woman."_

_"Appealing to my sense of morality is a weak strategy, especially for you," she shot back, a hint of menace creeping into her voice. "Do not pretend you are a font of virtue, Sherlock Holmes."_

_"I have had enough of this farce." I turned resolutely towards the door. _

_"Wait." I heard her rise from the wingchair, and felt her hand on my shoulder_ _"Please."_

_My patience was sorely tried, but I turned to face her, gently removing her hand. _

_"Mrs. Norton, you really have toyed with me enough," I said firmly. "If you wish to explain why you have felt compelled to meddle in my affairs, I will give you one last opportunity."_

_She moved closer to me. The rosewater scent of her perfume filled my nostrils. Underneath it there was something more metallic. It me feel dizzy and intoxicated. _

_"I can only say, Mr. Holmes, that I am afflicted with a streak of insatiable curiosity. Surely you can understand that." _

_"Mrs. Norton, I have my limits, and you are perilously close to crossing them."_

_"Why don't you call me Irene?" she asked, her tone playful. _

_"It is not appropriate." _

_She put one hand on my chest, now uncomfortably close. "You are so concerned with propriety, Mr. Holmes. It is really quite precious."_

_I took her wrist, and pulled it away."I am a gentleman, Mrs. Norton, and I cannot tolerate this flirtation any longer."_

_By this time, I was quite ready to use force to compel her to desist and make my escape, Watson. Truly, I was. _

_Through some maneuver I did not anticipate, she twisted her wrist out of my grasp and pressed into me, her fingers threading into the hair at the nape of my neck and closing tightly. Before I could react, she yanked upwards with surprising strength. I gasped in pain, immediately brought back to the feel of the biology master shaking me by the scruff of the neck after he'd found me dissecting his pet tortoise. I was too shocked to retaliate, unable to hold back a small groan._

_"Mr. Holmes. I told you," she said calmly, fingers still clenched tightly . "I never flirt."_

_I cannot sugarcoat it, Watson. I had known her game from the moment I entered the room, and it did not stay me._

_The instant her lips touched against mine, I was utterly disarmed. In violation of my very nature, I succumbed. It was the softest, most sensual kiss, quite in contrast to the hand viciously holding me by the hair. My breath caught in my throat, and my knees weakened. My head swam with the scent of rosewater, and I found myself responding to her attentions, all rational thought driven clean out of my mind. I tore the kimono open, my hands finding the taut flesh at the small of her back. She pulled the overcoat off my shoulders, and led me by the hand to the massive bedspread._

_I cannot go into further detail without encroaching on gentlemanly decency. Suffice to say that I went to bed with her. I do not wish to sound like that sordid D.H. Lawrence fellow, but I must confess that no cocaine bottle has ever equaled the stimulation, the physical transcendence of making love to that woman. _

_If I am honest with myself, I must now admit that I wanted Irene Adler, wanted her desperately from the moment I saw her in the box at the Albert Hall. I want her still, even though I have been reduced to this aging carcass, and she to bones and decaying flesh. _

_You were right when you said that I would be false as a lover. Such passion destroys my faculties, makes me weak and blind as a newborn, bleeds me like a knife to the gut. I am not like other men, who are driven to distraction by the need to protect their female companions. No, it is the deadly black widow that fascinates me, even as she draws me in to inexorable, poisonous death._

_I am afraid I cannot continue at present. It is too much. Please forgive me, Watson, for keeping such a secret from you for so long. I know what an appalling position in which it places me, and I know that you will be shocked, but please believe me when I say that I withheld the truth because your good regard is more precious to me than anything in this life. _

_I promise to continue my narrative, but it may be some time in coming. I beg your patience, and hope that you remain in good health, dearest Watson. _

_Eternally yours,_

_Sherlock Holmes_


	10. Interlude: The Edge of Madness

The Journal

January, 1891

The days all run together. I do not know if I am awake or dreaming, if it is day or night. The curtains have been closed for two weeks. I am beginning to run out of space on my inner arms, and have taken to injecting into my thighs. I have lost count of the needle marks, and hardly know which of the poisons I have taken.

It does not help. I can't stop my mind from racing in circles like some maniacal carousel. I can't get her out of my head. I can smell her scent, that faint smell of gunpowder and roses. The memory cuts into me like a razor.

I can see her now, her face a white shadow above mine. I lay here on the hearth rug, where I landed after the room began to spin and make me dizzy with vertigo. I can feel those claws scoring lines into my chest, my back. I can feel the sting of carpet burns that form on my shoulder blades.

The taste of her mouth, like citrus with a hint of brandy. That delicate blossoming of bruises from my rough hands. Beads of moisture gathering in the hollow of her throat. Skin like velvet, so hot and slick with sweat that I thought it would blister from the relentless friction.

Delicate features contorting, lower lip twitching as she takes gasping, shallow breaths. Her eyes open, pupils dilated like one lost in a fog of opium. My hands tangled in that lovely hair, my face buried in that exquisite neck, tasting her racing pulse and counting the beats. The angry marks around her wrists from my merciless grip fairly gleam in the darkness.

God, let me die. Let me die. I cannot lift myself from this floor, cannot reach the needle to plunge it into my neck and take the deadly solution I have mixed for myself. No, all I have is this worthless little notebook and a dull stub of a pencil.

Would you do it for me, my dear? It is only fair. I would kill you if I had the opportunity, my darling. I have murdered you a thousand times in my waking nightmares, and to my horror, you always return.

Let me sleep. Let me rest. I would cut my own throat if I could but leave this floor. I am aware that I am slowly going mad. These hallucinations, this ceaseless agitation, will undo me entirely.

How I lie, my darling. I would give anything to have you in my arms. I know you are laughing at me, vicious, treacherous Irene...*

*_Watson's footnote: here the writing becomes illegible, and trails off in an indistinct scribble. _


	11. The Long Drop

The Journal

March 1st, 1891

I have gotten through the worst of it. Between cases, my neurosis has been far more pronounced, but work is the best antidote. The past weeks have been a torrent of wild agitation, and ghostly hallucinations. There have been mixed states of darkness and charged enthusiasm.

I am not alone in my madness; Lord Byron offers the most apt observation:

_Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure from many of the legitimate sources of pain. _

In these frenetic states, I joyfully contemplated suicide, and would certainly have delivered myself into its jaws, had Watson not intervened. He has weakened all of my drugs with saline, taken all of my poisons and has told me I will not get them back until I have recovered. He suggested a trip to the country, but I have doggedly refused and have simply plowed on with my cases. He says this ceaseless work will be the death of me. But life without work is so interminably monotonous that I have more than once contemplated putting my revolver in my mouth and pulling the trigger.

Good Doctor Watson. I know he suffers for my sake. I have behaved most dreadfully towards him, and yet he has always stood fast and taken it in stride with his infinite Hippocratic patience.

Ironically, it was news of the Rose case that finally put paid to my melancholia. After a lengthy investigation and a very long trial, Jacob Hackett and Jack Rose had both been sentenced to hang, after it was discovered they had orchestrated the deaths of the real Malcolm Dover and his wife. I had a letter from Lestrade requesting my presence at the execution. It was a formality, as I had brought about the occasion, and it occurred to me that perhaps it would facilitate some final conclusion to the whole affair. At least, that is the excuse I offer.

I had orchestrated the deaths of these men. However tangentially, I had been an instrument of a vengeance killing. It would be cowardly of me not to see it out to the end.

For the first time in days, I bathed myself, and shaved the stubble from my face. I oiled my hair and put on fresh clothes. I looked at myself in the mirror; I was still a wraith, but at least now I was well groomed and respectable.

I took lunch at Simpson's, a nourishing beef stew and good warm bread. I managed to finish it, and felt a little nauseous, but succeeded in keeping it down. I also managed a cup of strong coffee with my cigar.

As my cab sped towards Newgate, I was suddenly visited with the sensation of physical contact. It was a tingling at the nape of my neck, as if phantom hands were touching me. The tingling spread across my scalp and down my shoulders. It shocked me right back into the land of memory, and I suddenly felt as if the walls of the hansom were closing in around me. Without warning, the memory consumed me.

_It was perhaps four o clock in the morning. All of the windows were thrown open, but the air was still and there was a prevailing humidity. I lay next to my companion, both of us as naked as David and Bathsheba, flushed and sweating alcohol. Between trysts, we had consumed a few bottles of the comet vintage. _

_The hotel had hot and cold running water laid on, so Irene's solution was to soak one of the plush towels in cold water and use it as a sort of impromptu sponge bath. She laid the wet cloth on the back of my neck and I shuddered a little. It was very cold, but quite a pleasant sensation. _

_"I spent some time in very warm places and this was the best way to cool down, short of jumping in the river," she said as she washed my shoulders. I took the towel from her and applied it to her back. She was slender, but toned, with wiry strength. _

_I soaked the small red welts and bruises I had made on her shoulder blades, marveling at my own savagery. In my minimal experience, I had never used someone (or indeed, been used) so roughly. _

_I had first tried to be gentle with her, but when she struck me a vicious slap across the face and then kissed my stinging lips, I realized I was far out of my depth. When I had the temerity to spend too long contemplating this troubling revelation, she slapped me again. I seized her wrists and held them in one hand pinned over her head. _

_"Better," she had said, smiling devilishly._

_After that, I wasn't gentle at all. I was selfish, ravenous. My hands tore into her hair, and I devoured her mouth. When I thought my tortured muscles could take no more, she assumed the superior position. She put her forearm across my throat and pressed down, not enough to suffocate me, but enough to create the sensation of breathlessness. It had an intoxicating effect, and I felt my heart skip a few beats. After a moment, she let up, and I felt all of my tension dissipate into a sudden, violent release._

_I did not move for a full minute, my entire body as relaxed as a corpse. Moonlight streamed through the windows and I was able to make out the small carriage clock on the mantelpiece. It was not yet two-thirty._

_A wave of revulsion went through me. I fairly leaped to my feet, quite ready to flee, then sank back onto the bed, feeling as though my spine was made of rubber._

_"What have you done to me?" I murmured. She palmed my slightly tender face6, making me wince slightly, then got up and went to pour two glasses of wine. I was able to pull myself into a sitting position against the headboard, and accepted the glass from her, taking it back in one swallow. It almost immediately went straight to my head and made me a little dizzy. I allowed her to refill my glass, this time taking small sips. Despite this, I was soon drunk, and we were back to doing things one would hesitate to ask from a professional. _

_Two hours later, I had flexed in so many positions that I felt like I had noodles in place of bones. I had experienced all the violent and tender facets of passion, and in a fog of exhaustion, knew that something deep in my soul had been strangled out of existence. I didn't care. My mind was washed of everything, and I existed only in that moment. _

_"What warm places?" I asked, taking the towel and moistening the space between her shoulder blades. _

_"All over," she said with a sigh, and I could feel a tiny shiver run through her. "South America, Africa...India." _

_"All these exotic places, and you come to London."_

_She propped herself up on her elbows and looked at me. "It was just the next place, one I hadn't lived in before. It was comfortable, and convenient for travel. I had considered it my second home for a number of years before you came along."_

_I traced my finger down her spine. "I am sorry about that. Truly, I am."_

_She shrugged. "It was probably best. The King was not above using violence to silence me. I think he only reconsidered after I shot and killed one of his hired ruffians."_

_I looked at her in amazement. On one hand, my opinion of her virtue had evaporated into total contempt, but on the other, I was developing an entirely new respect for her. The woman was clearly a force to be reckoned with. _

_"Irene, do you love your husband?" I asked quietly. _

_She rolled onto her back, and didn't look at me, but spoke rather to the ceiling._

_"That is a difficult question. He is kindly and good, but like nearly all Englishmen, he is chronically boring."_

_"Chronically boring is an apt description for almost all men," I said. "With few exceptions, only deviants and madmen have anything novel to say."_

_She laughed softly, and then let out a long sad sigh. I lifted myself out of bed and helped myself to one of her cigarettes, then went and sat down on the end of the mattress. _

_"Why me?" I asked, more to myself than to her._

_She sat up and sidled up to me, taking the cigarette from me and pulling from it. _

_"You have something novel to say," she said affectionately, handing it back to me. _

_"I suppose I deserved that."_

_"I am quite serious, Sherlock Holmes." she stood and stretched broadly. "There is a certain predilection that we share. We have a horror of the mediocre, and a fascination for the macabre."_

_"You, a fascination for the macabre?" I said, surprised._

_"You have no idea."_

_"Tell me."_

_She smiled. "Not yet." _

_She took the cigarette from me and tossed it out the window, then cupped my face in her hands. I lifted her into my lap and pressed my mouth to hers. She tasted of smoke._

The cab had come to a stop. I grasped my brandy flask and took a quick pull to steady my nerves, then disembarked. A small crowd had gathered outside the prison, but they stepped aside for Lestrade as he came to meet me. He said nothing, but beckoned me to follow him through the passage. I arrived just in time to see Hackett and Rose marching up to the gallows. The familiar figure of hangman James Berry appeared to be chatting with a few members of the press. He was clearly more than a bit drunk, and I worried that he might botch the hanging. Berry's rope had been known to decapitate, despite his reputed mastery of the long drop.

One of the reporters approached me. It was Butterworth from the Telegraph, who unfortunately knew me on sight.

"Mr. Holmes!" said he, so cheerful that I found him quite morbid. "Am I to take it by your presence that you helped organize this little gathering?"

"Mr. Butterworth," I said, in my most caustic voice. "I have never before given my comment to your paper, and I do not intend to start today. This is an execution, not a garden party."

He gave a short, nervous bow, and scurried away back to his colleagues. They were soon in deep whispered conversation, and I knew that speculation would appear in the evening edition.

The Ordinary had finished conferring with the condemned men. Hackett had a glazed look, and I suspected the big man had taken a healthy dose of brandy from the prison doctor, but Rose was watching me with blazing eyes. I felt the man's fury as if it were a wave of heat emanating from his body.

I was not a stranger to executions, but I was troubled by this one. Had I been employed to hunt Jack Rose down, I would have no compunction about watching him die, but having been employed as a tool to condemn my client, I felt a little ill-used.

The last of the benedictions had been read, and the customary farewell spoken. Berry opened the trap, and both men plunged through the trap. The snapping of vertebrae was audible, as was the tearing of flesh. The white hood over Hackett's head was turning scarlet, and it was obvious by the angle of his head that it had separated from his body, held in place only by his bony spine. His feet twitched for a minute or so, then finally became still. Rose struggled for a few moments more, but then he too succumbed. The two lifeless bodies swayed slightly, and started to go rigid. Blood was beginning to soak through Hackett's clothing, and dripped on the dusty ground.

For a moment, I imagined I was in their place. I could almost feel the rope closing about my throat, the last fleeting glimpses of consciousness rushing through my mind until blessed darkness took me. My eyes closed and my breath caught in my throat in reflexive sympathy.

Lestrade cleared his throat. I opened my eyes, and looked at him. He offered his hand as if to congratulate me. I looked down at it, then back at the dead men.

"Thank you, Inspector, but I am afraid that to accept gratitude in this instance would put me in a false pretense."

"You don't look well, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade, his beady eyes wide with concern, withdrawing his hand.

"Believe me, I am improving," I said in a clipped voice. "Good day, Lestrade."

The prison bell began to toll. I turned my back on the macabre scene, and walked away with hell's own choir roaring in my ears.


	12. So Much For The Afterglow

_Sussex Downs, July 29th, 1926_

_Friend Watson,_

_This epistle has been perhaps the most difficult for me to write. Please bear witness to the fact that I have held this secret close for nearly forty years. This, the crisis of my narrative, has nearly driven me to the needle again for the first time in twenty years. _

_To think of Irene as a lover is quite a different thing to viewing her as an enemy. I learned quickly that hatred is not the antithesis to love. It tears just as deep a fissure in soul, and cripples one's resolve. Would that I were indifferent, Watson. It tears me still. _

_I awoke suddenly very aware of my nakedness. A hot breeze was washing over me, and a little sweat was collecting on my skin. I sat up and felt around for my trousers and shirt. Irene (for I could not now consider her by any other name) was seated in front of a vanity, dressed in a light shift. She was lacing the back of her corset, examining her bruised collarbone in the mirror's reflection. I moved behind her and took the laces from her. I quickly did up them up while she watched me silently in the mirror._

_I stepped away from her, feeling somewhat nauseated. I had consumed a great deal more wine than my tolerance. Normally my constitution for alcohol is quite strong, but like Cleopatra to her Marc Antony, she drank me under the table. And that Parisian rosewater perfume served to make me somewhat dizzy. So I let myself lay back down on the bed. She snapped up the front of a yellow and white pinstriped walking-out dress and stood before me. I am not normally given to attach value to such things, Watson, but the dress had a marvelous effect on her figure. _

_"I have a small errand I must attend to," she said in a clipped tone. "I will return shortly."_

_I wondered for a moment at her brusque behaviour. She turned for the door, but I caught up with her, and pressed my lips to her cheek. She palmed my face._

_"There's tea on the breakfast table." _

_Then she was away, through the door, her steps dying away. I resumed my search for my garments. I had got away from 221 B with only a shirt, a pair of trousers and the overcoat, so I was clad in a matter of moments. After a moment's contemplation, I went over to the breakfast table and poured myself a cup of tea. I lifted it to my nose and inhaled. The scent was familiar. _

_Time seemed to stop, and then speed up again very quickly. The cup slid from my hand, shattering on the table. I jumped the divan and tore the door open, skidding a few feet before shoving my way through the foreign quality and down the stairs._

_I accosted a cab man and promised him a fiver if he could catch the Continental Express before it left Victoria. We arrived with five minutes to spare, which was ample time for me to steal aboard. I flicked away my cigarette and immediately slipped into the first class cars. It was a short search; in the window of the third compartment, I espied a familiar hand in white lace, a loaded silver cigarette holder held loosely between index and middle finger. I slid open the door and turned into the compartment, and was face to face with the muzzle of a snub-nosed, pearl handled revolver. _

_"Come in, and close the door behind you," Irene said in a slow, deliberate manner. I acquiesced, stepping across the threshold and letting the door slide shut behind me. She pressed the barrel into my chest. With the cigarette holder, she gestured to the opposite seat. I slid down into it, an icy hand closing around my heart._

_She smiled, head tilted back, and lifted the holder to her lips. She had the attitude of a contented tiger. Utter confidence, and total control. The charming exterior had faded away to reveal the predator. You might have said it were as if I were staring into a mirror, Watson._

_"You really think you are clever," I growled, a fury rising in my breast. "But you couldn't stop yourself from giving up the game. Why?"_

_She cocked her head, regarding me with a laconic expression. "I thought that would be obvious, especially to such a celebrated reasoner as yourself."_

_"Just to sweeten the poison, then?"_

_I could feel every lesion and bruise from last night's exertions throb and burn. There was something positively indecent about the way she licked her lips. I had never before felt a violent inclination towards a woman, but at that moment I wanted to leap across the compartment and strangle her until she was blue in the face._

_"I wanted you to feel this keenly," she said in a confiding voice, patting my knee. "You wear your professional pride like a suit of armour, and I needed an unorthodox strategy to breach your defenses."_

_She spoke with such command, such authority. She had mastered the art of deception. I could see in her the force of spirit necessary to command a host of criminal elements. _

_"It was never really about Jack, you see. He and his servant Hackett were ideally placed to assist in bringing you to heel, Mr. Holmes. Naturally, I could have disposed of Jack Rose myself, but there you were. Immediately after I read the article, I departed for England."_

_"How did you manage to secure confederates in so short a time?" I interjected. _

_She smiled. "Like you, I have my irregulars. Oh, don't think you will catch any of them. They are as clever as they are skillful."_

_"After they fulfilled their purpose, I decided it was time to step into the game. I went to the opera with the sole purpose of attracting your attention."_

_"You do not need to tell me the facts, madam," said I, my ire rising._

_"But it is necessary, Mr. Holmes, that you understand the gravity of your mistakes," she said sternly, stabbing the cigarette holder at me._

_"I do not-"_

_"One must always have the complete facts, Mr. Holmes. It is no good to base one's inference on mere speculation." _

_How often had I heard such admonitions from my own lips? It was intolerable, Watson._

_"You visited Baker Street just so you could leave your card on my sideboard."_

_She exhaled a plume of smoke and then French-inhaled it, drawing it back into her nostrils. I looked between her face and the pistol, waiting to catch her off guard. However, she was vigilant._

_She slid over to my side of the compartment, digging the muzzle into my ribs. In a perverse gesture of friendship, she offered me a cigarette. I accepted it, allowed her to light it, and took one deep inhalation. The action steadied me, easing my agitation. _

_"Yes. I wanted to see if you would come. And you did. I met your dear Dr. Watson while I was tailing you, and fetched your carriage for you. Then I simply went home, took a lovely bath and waited for you."_

_"And you bedded me for spite? To keep me there until morning, so you could dose me with my own medicine?"_

_"I could say it was a matter of course," she said, smiling mysteriously. "But that would be a lie. I am not that petty. To embarrass you in your own field, that was enough. But I recalled those words that your friend had written about me. How he protests against your feeling anything so human as the emotion of love! I admit, it did arouse my curiosity."_

_"Lust, Mrs. Norton. Or do you prefer Mrs. Rose?" I asked, matter-of-factly. "You have quite the resume: a murderess, a thief, a bigamist, a con-artist and an adulteress. Few of my adversaries can boast such a pedigree."_

_"Please," she said, her face somewhat obscured by smoke."A lady is allowed to have lovers if she is _trés discret_. In any case, I was never married to Rose."_

_"Your capacity to tell the truth is highly suspect, my dear."_

_She withdrew gracefully to the other side of the compartment. The pearl handled revolver was trained on me every minute, and I waited in vain for an opportunity to seize it from her. She would shoot me through the heart first. _

_"You know, Mrs. Norton," said I, tossing the spent cigarette out of the window. "You would be well advised to shoot me now. Otherwise, you will find yourself at my mercy."_

_"I could never do that, dearheart," she said with a venomous smile. "There's no sport without you."_

_"I am sure you will find plenty of sport in the dock," I replied calmly. "I will see to it."_

_"You, and as they say, whose army?" she laughed. "What will you do? Run to Scotland Yard or the Pinkerton Agency and tell them all about our dalliance? It would be a swift, brutal and fatal end to your career. My husband would have you up for slander in a trice, and you would find yourself on the mill, disgraced and ruined."_

_I could not deny the truth in this, Watson. Were it known that I, Sherlock Holmes, had allowed myself to become entangled with a married woman, my career would have followed Jack Rose through the trapdoor. _

_"I may choose to exact personal vengeance," I said in an offhand way, watching her carefully for some kind of reaction._

_"You have not got it in you, Sherlock," she said, rising slowly. "Oh, you may be capable of shooting a rogue at twenty paces, but you are not a brute, and you are not driven by passion. I do not think you could kill a woman, much less a lover."_

_"You vastly overestimate my chivalry, madam. We are not enemies, not lovers."_

_Her smile had become wan and ironic. "You are more the fool, Sherlock, if you think there is anything to choose between the two."_

_The train was beginning to slow. She gestured with the gun, and I stood. _

_"Hands behind your back, if you please," she said sweetly and sidled up to me. She slipped the revolver into a fold in her skirt, pressing it into my side through the fabric. She looped her arm in mine and stepped down on the platform of Canterbury station. _

_The day had become quite fine. It was hot and dry, and my overcoat was beginning to make me perspire. Irene looked refreshed and vibrant in the sun. She steered me into the shadow of the station house. _

_"Well, my darling," she cooed in my ear, flirtatious as ever. "I am quite sorry to have to leave you like this, but I think we will meet again before long."_

_I looked down at her, repulsed and attracted at the same time. In another life, she might have been a contemporary. I felt a sting of regret, but it passed in a vision of her wearing the broad arrow. I wanted to see her brought low. I was eager to chase her. I was foolish. _

_She leaned in and pressed her lips into mine, while I stood stock still, closing my eyes so I would not have to look at her. I felt one gloved hand caress my face. Suddenly, a sickly sweet smell filled my nostrils. Chloroform._

_I began to struggle, but heard the cock of the hammer. I froze, just long enough to take a great breath of the chloroform-soaked handkerchief. The world went dark, my knees buckled, and I knew no more. _

_I was prodded awake by the night watchman. It was raining and I was soaked through. I gave some weak excuse, and was able to scrape just enough change out of my overcoat pocket to pay for a third class train fare back to London. _

_You found me in that despondent condition two weeks later, Watson. When I returned from my little jaunt, I found myself sorely in need of a whiskey. I found one at Mad King George's. It wasn't much longer before I found myself in the basement, stripped to the waist, engaging in the noble British bloodletting, boxing. I took on at least five opponents that evening, a wild burst of manic energy carrying me through each punch and jab, masking the pain of every impact. _

_I do not remember how I got back to Baker Street, but obviously I did, for I then went on the drug binge to end all drug binges. All told, by the time you had found me, I had lost perhaps fifteen pounds and had slept only when aided by liberal applications of morphia. _

_If you have not guessed, it was the scent of the Darjeeling Spring Flush that finally lifted the veil from the mystery. Unable to resist the chance to glory in my humiliation, she prepared it, knowing I would immediately recognize it, and connect her to the London and South Western caper. Irene Adler could never be satisfied with mere victory; she could not resist the temptation to crow over her opponent. She had pulled the wool over my eyes; she wanted me to know it. _

_She might as well have mixed arsenic into that tea for all the sadistic malice that was in it. To this day, I have not touched Darjeeling of any stripe, for the memories associated with the mere scent can have a more powerful psychological effect than the strongest narcotic. It tastes of defeat, and even now I cannot abide it. _

_As you have witnessed, it took me a number of years to claw my way back from the abyss. I have enclosed a diary from those torrential years, but I have not set eyes upon it since then, so I cannot speak for its contents except to say they were written in a drug induced frenzy. I hope it does not bring you pain, but I feel that it is necessary that I entrust you with my deepest self, however perverse and twisted it may be. _

_I believe it was divine intervention that brought you into my life, Watson, for you have saved my life a hundred times over. You have saved my life without knowing it. When I was in my greatest despair, you were there. I would have starved myself if you hadn't found me that night, and when you returned to live at 221 B, it was your good camaraderie that rescued me from perpetually murdering myself. Even as I sought death at the Reichenbach, it was the thought of you that rekindled the fight in my soul. For all the praise you have heaped on me, you are the strong one, my dear friend. _

_I know I have probably shocked and disturbed you with my story. I imagine you would be even more shocked to know that I saw Irene Adler again, but that is a story for another time. I leave this narrative in your hands to do with what you will, though I agree it will be better told in the far future, when it will not bring dismay to our contemporaries. _

_Tell me the news of city, and of yourself. I hope to see you quite soon. _

_Yours, as always,_

_Sherlock Holmes_


	13. The Burden

Perhaps two weeks after the train affair, I decided on a visit to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson met me at the door in a state of considerable agitation. Apparently Holmes had not come out of his room for a week, and had only water and a few pieces of toast in that time. It was not unheard of for Holmes to hide for months on end, but at around three days he would usually take some sustenance. I knew at once that something was amiss.

I knocked several times and called through the door. After the fifth knock, the door flew open and there stood Holmes, looking more gaunt and emaciated than I had ever seen him. There was a cut above his brow, a bruise on his cheekbone, and his lower lip was split. His hair was messy and his eyes were a little wild.

"Holmes! What in God's name has happened to you?" I cried, appalled by his condition.

"That," he said in a croaky voice. "Is a very abstruse and esoteric question, Watson. Please do come inside."

"We must get something in you," I said sternly. "You're half starved!"

"Water will be enough for me," he said dismissively.

"It certainly will not, Holmes!" I turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Please, bring up some pea soup."

Holmes rolled his eyes and sauntered into his sitting room, beckoning me to follow.

"Please, Holmes, how did you get yourself into this state?"

"What, this?" he indicated his bruised face as he sank down on to the sofa. "This was courtesy of Steel-Fist Jim. We went six rounds in Mad King George's cellar, but I gave him what for in the end."

He held out his hand to show me his scabbed knuckles.I suddenly spotted the row of needle marks running along the inside of his arm.

"How much cocaine have you taken?"

"Morphine, actually," he said with a wan smile. "It has a more repressive effect on my nervous system."

"Why are you deliberately sabotaging your health?"

"Because I have failed in my profession," he said numbly. "I have allowed myself to be emotionally compromised."

"How so?"

His turned his vacant gaze to me. "Perhaps one day I will tell you, Doctor. But not today."

Mrs. Hudson came in with a large bowl of soup and some toast on a tray. I dragged the side table around in front of Holmes, and the landlady set the tray down in front of him.

"Should I bring up some tea?" she asked.

Holmes looked away as if the notion caused him physical pain.

"Water," I said quickly.

I pushed the bowl of soup towards him and thrust the spoon towards him. He spent a quantity of time staring at it as if trying to remember what it was for, then he seized the utensil and began to attack his meal. Mrs. Hudson brought water, and I poured him a glass. He took it from me, and downed the entire glass in one gulp. I poured him another.

"Slow down, old boy."

Holmes set the glass down and licked his dry lips. He then reclined back against the sofa, running his hands through his messy hair.

"Thank you, Watson," he said in a hoarse whisper. "I would have shriveled up if you had not come. You know how it is with my black moods."

"This is more than a black mood, Holmes," I said, taking in his completely unkempt appearance.

The air was very close in the sitting room, so I went over and opened up one of the windows. There was a small breeze, just sufficient enough to clear the smell of tobacco smoke. In the late afternoon light, Holmes looked like death warmed over. He was wearing a blood stained shirt and trousers and nothing else. Through the gap in his shirt, I could see yellow bruises and long scratches on his chest. He had clearly been very ill used.

"My pipe, Watson. The cherry wood, it's on the mantel piece. Just a very little tobacco, please."

I went to fulfill his request, and noticed on the mantel piece the photograph of Irene Adler. Its presence there puzzled me, as it normally resided in Holmes' desk drawer, and so far as I had seen, he never removed it for any reason.

I then noticed, in the wallpaper behind it, a tight spiral of bullets surrounding it, each one successively closer. The last had clipped the top edge of the frame, and there was an infinitesimal spider web of cracks across the glass, crisscrossing over the lady's beautiful face.

"Holmes, does this...I mean, your current condition..have anything to do with Irene Adler?" I ventured carefully, indicating the photograph. He gave me a doleful look.

"My pipe. Please, Watson."

I handed it to him, and struck a match to light it for him. He took a grateful pull, and blew smoke at the ceiling. Then he raised himself from the sofa, and went to the mantel piece. With the utmost care, he lifted the photograph and returned it to his desk drawer.

* * *

fin


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